


If Everyone Cared

by imaginationtherapy



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Autistic Spencer Reid, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Established Relationship, Hotch has emotions, Hurt Aaron Hotchner, Hurt Spencer Reid, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Papa Rossi, Protective Aaron Hotchner, Protective Derek Morgan, References to S2 Ep15 Revelations, Rossi is such a dad, Rossi listens, Spencer Reid Whump, Spoilers, Timeline?, Uhhhh after Foyet, Vague spoilers to the Foyet arc, Worried Derek Morgan, as it tends to come up in these stories, because my writing is as chaotic as my soul, in that i like to explore EMOTIONS, no active drug use or relapse, no beta we die like men, possibly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 52,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24844510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginationtherapy/pseuds/imaginationtherapy
Summary: This unsub has been taking law enforcement pairs captive, before brutally beating one of them to death while the other watches. So far, the BAU team's research has only given them a witness, one Mark Rozzanatti. Hotch takes Reid with him to interview Rozzanatti at his home.It goes well. Right up until Rozzanatti strikes out at Reid and grabs his gun.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid
Comments: 421
Kudos: 716





	1. If Everyone Loved and Nobody Lied

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there!  
> This is my first Criminal Minds fanfic, so I hope the characterizations are at least semi-accurate. I've been dabbling in the Endeavour Fandom for about a year now, and recently swan-dived into the CM fandom. I've seen up until S2 Ep 15, but am aware of most major plot points throughout the seasons.
> 
> This is set sometime after the Foyet storyline, though timeline doesn't really matter.
> 
> I hope you enjoy :-)

Reid staggers back from the force of Mark Rozzanatti’s fist as it grazes the side of his head. It’s unexpected, a sudden lashing out of someone who they thought was just a witness. With the anger flashing in Rozzanatti’s eyes and Reid’s own gun in the man’s hand, Reid is certain Rozzanatti is no simple witness. 

He’s the unsub.

Rozzanatti leers at him, lunging forward with an animalistic growl.

In an instant, Hotch steps in front of Reid, blocking Rozzanatti’s advance. Reid steps back, letting Hotch take control for a moment. He presses a hand to his temple, trying to get the world to stop spinning.

“Stay away from him,” Hotch commands. He’s drawn himself to his full height, his eyes flashing with anger at Rozzanatti's deception.

“Step aside.” Rozzanatti points Reid’s revolver at Hotch’s chest.

“No.” Hotch’s voice is firm, with that edge of steel that still sends shivers up Reid’s spine, and not in a good way.

“Step aside,” Rozzanatti motions to the side with the gun. “And you won’t get hurt.” 

Hotch tilts his head a fraction. Reid can picture the glower that he gives Rozzanatti, eyebrows forming cliffs over angrily glittering dark eyes.

“Do you honestly think I care more for my well being than that of my agent’s?”

Rozzanatti raises the gun, a dark grin on his face. Reid’s breath catches in his throat at the motion. He can’t stand here and watch this, watch Hotch gunned down just for protecting him. He takes a tentative step forward, thankful when the ground stays put.

“Hotch.” He touches Hotch’s arm lightly, trying to convey comfort with the gesture. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay.”

He knows he won’t be. They know how the unsub works: kidnap a cop and his partner, beat the shit out of the smaller one, leave him to die while the other partner watches, unable to do anything.

The alternative, though, is to watch Rozzanatti shoot Hotch.

He can’t do that.

 _“No.”_ The word is viscous and serrated at the edges, ground out between Hotch’s thinned lips. Hotch manages to catch Reid’s wrist in a bruising grip, stopping his motion.

Rozzanatti’s eyes flicker to Hotch’s grip on Reid, then back to their faces. He grins.

“Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Before either of them can prepare, the man’s gun slams into Hotch’s head. He loses his grip on Reid, tumbling to the ground with a pained yelp.

 _“Aaron! No--”_ Reid lunges after him, only to be yanked back against Rozzanatti’s chest. There’s cold steel pressed to his temple, and he freezes.

Hotch groans, one hand pressing against the blood trickling from his hairline. He recovers quickly, reflexes born out of years of experience. He’s spinning, pushing himself to his knees, eyes frantically searching for Reid.

“Reid-- _damn you.”_ He freezes at the sight of Reid’s gun jammed into Reid’s head. “Let him go.”

“Nah. You know how this goes.” Rozzanatti’s grip slides to Reid’s arm. He leans in close to Reid, his lips brushing Reid’s ears. “Take your partner’s cuffs, and chain him to that pipe. Then give me the key. And his guns. Both of them.” The gun presses hard into Reid’s skull, making him wince. “You make one wrong move and I will shoot him.”

Reid follows orders, apologizing to Hotch with his eyes.

“Spencer.” Hotch grabs his wrist before he can back away. “Spencer, no.” There’s pain in his eyes, fear and horror mixing together. He’s vulnerable, his walls in tatters.

Reid gives him a shaky smile, curling his fingers around Hotch’s hand.

“Let him go, Hotchner.” Rozzanatti has slipped up behind Reid without a sound. 

“You’re one of us,” Reid hisses. He doesn’t break eye contact with Hotch. “How can you kill your own?”

“Because you took what was _mine.”_ A heavy hand curls itself into Reid’s collar, yanking him backwards and away from Hotch.

Reid hears Hotch’s horrified shout just before he crashes into the concrete wall and everything goes black.

* * *

The first hit is the worst, for some reason. 

Before, Hotch could almost convince himself that he would be able to protect Reid, that the team might get here, that Rozzanatti might end this vendetta. Even when Rozzanatti sent Reid crashing into the wall, Hotch thought they might have a chance. The man’s kills showed evidence of remorse, and maybe seeing Reid’s still form -- before a beating -- might bring him to his senses.

But then Rozzanatti tossed a glass of water on Reid, waking him up. He curled his fingers in Reid’s collar again, ignoring Hotch’s demands to _let him go_ and the incessant rattling of Hotch’s handcuffs against the pipe. Rozzanatti hauls Reid to his feet. 

Then he buries his fist in Spencer’s side with brutal efficiency.

Reid cries out and Hotch flinches at the sound. He can see Reid’s face as his features contort in pain. Visions of that cursed cabin in Georgia flash through Hotch’s memory, the sound of Reid’s whimpers, the smell of the rotten fish. He can’t go through that again -- neither of them can.

“Stop this!” Hotch tries to keep his voice level, commanding but unemotional. He has to be Unit Chief Hotcher, watching out for his agent, SSA Dr. Reid. He can’t be Aaron, desperately trying to save his Spencer.

He has no idea what Rozzanatti might do if he found out the truth about them. So far his kills have been brutal beatings, eerie replications of the way his own partner, Jerome Sandoval, was murdered. Rozzanatti beats and tortures the weaker partner, leaving the stronger partner -- who he clearly sees as a stand-in for Jerome’s murderers -- to the psychological torture of watching the life leave their partner’s bodies. Along with whatever damage they manage to do to themselves, trying to save their partner.

Hotch’s is terrified of what the man will do to Reid. His wrist is already bruised from yanking against the handcuffs.

“Leave him alone, Rozzanatti.” Hotch pulls hard against his restraints, and he feels the metal slice into his skin. 

He barely notices the sensation; he’s completely focused on Reid.

Rozzanatti only grins over his shoulder. “Nah. Don’t think I will.”

He slams his fist into Reid’s stomach. Spencer gags at the force of the hit, his face already too pale in the dingy basement. 

“This one--” Rozzanatti hits Reid in the jaw, causing his head to snap back in a way that makes Hotch sick. “Deserves this.”

He hits Reid twice more, before tossing him to the floor and glaring at Hotch again.

“And you deserve to watch him die.”

He lashes out, catching Reid in the side with his steel-capped boots.

Reid cries out in pain.

Hotch doesn’t even notice the blood dripping from his wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwahaha! A cliffhanger!
> 
> Chapter and story titles come from _If Everyone Cared_ by Nickleback. I tend to listen to a song on repeat that sets the mood for the story, so if you want the "mood" that I'm writing this from, check out the song.
> 
> Please comment? The comment monster that lives within me is a hungry beast and would love some foods. :-D Also, please be kind? 
> 
> Also, come chat with me on tumblr (I'm there under imaginationtherapy and also bau-gremlin).


	2. If They Could Love Like You and I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *does a happy dance*  
> Two chapters in an hour? Yeee!
> 
> I've got this mostly plotted and 80% finished, so hopefully it won't take me too long to get spruced up and posted. Hope you enjoy, and uh, I'm sorry in advance?
> 
> Oh, by the way, since you don't know me well, I tag very specifically and very well. If I didn't tag it, it didn't happen. If I did tag it, it will happen. *evil grin*

Hotch's voice is raw from shouting and his wrist is on fire. He’s wiped his own blood out of his eyes too many times to count. His shoes are scuffed and his pants torn from scrambling on the rough concrete floor.

Hotch doesn’t care. Reid is all that matters to him right now, and there’s nothing he can do to save Spencer.

Rozzanatti won’t respond to Hotch’s threats, his demands, nor the broken words that he’s been reduced to as Spencer’s cries grow weaker.

Rozzanatti has hit Spencer so many times, with his feet and his hands and Reid’s gun. Each time, the sounds of Spencer’s cries tear through Hotch, burning like acid in his veins. Too many images swirl in Hotch’s mind, mixing with the blood congealing on the handcuffs and leaving him nauseous from the smell of bloody memories.

He can see them clearly, inbetween Rozzanatti’s kicks to Reid’s stomach: the LDSK case early on, when he’d been forced to attack Reid; Hankel’s vicious treatment of Spencer with fists and psychological torture; Foyet’s attack on Hotch himself, and then Haley… 

He can’t lose Reid.

Rozzanatti pauses, circling Spencer’s still form. He hooks the toe of his boot under Reid’s shoulder, flipping him over. Reid’s head rolls limply as one arm smacks off the floor.

Hotch holds his breath, praying it’s not over. _Please._

Reid moans, and Hotch can breathe again.

“Rozzanatti.” His voice is rough, and he’s certain there are tears on his face. “Stop this.” 

Part of him knows he should be profiling, should be doing his damn _job_ and trying to stop this bastard. But he can’t, can’t seem to get past the sight of Spencer’s battered body spread out on the unforgiving ground. 

“Beg.” Rozzanatti looms over Spencer, his gun pointed at Reid’s abdomen. “I want to hear you _beg.”_

Another signature, Hotch’s mind supplies. Rozzanatti wants the more powerful of the partners to grovel, to lower himself. The ones that don’t beg end up watching their partners bleed out from a gut shot. The ones that do beg-- well, so far none of them have. Rozzanatti picks his victims well, knowing which pairs will give him the satisfaction he wants.

Until now.

Hotch will be the first to beg. He doesn’t even have to think twice.

 _“Please.”_ His eyes are locked on Reid’s still form, cataloguing every miniscule sign that he’s alive. He wishes he could see clearly, without the blurriness of the concussion and the blood in his eyes. “Please, let him be.” His voice is soft, cracking as his raw throat protests.

His eyes flicker up to Rozzanatti, and he holds his gaze.

“Please, stop this. I’ll...I’ll do anything you want. _Anything._ Just stop this.”

Something odd flashes in Rozzanatti’s eyes, something that Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner would use to his advantage. Reid’s _lover_ can’t focus on anything other than the faint rise and fall of that thin chest.

“What do you want?” Rozzanatti’s voice is softer, almost conversational instead of confrontational. 

“Let me go to him. Please.” Hotch yanks on the cuffs again, barely noticing the way they slice through his already broken and bleeding skin. “He’s my partner. He’s in pain.”

“No.”

Hotch turns his eyes to Rozzanatti. He knows he’s crying, he can feel the tears dripping down his face. He can’t remember the last time he cried. Probably Haley. 

_God, this is too much like that day._

He can’t lose Reid. He just can’t.

“No, I can’t let you lose.” Rozzanatti stares at Reid for a long moment. “But you can have him if you want.”

He bends over, yanking Reid up roughly by the shoulders. Reid is barely conscious, but he reacts to the pain. His whimpers drive shards of metal into Hotch’s skin.

“Here.” Rozzanatti drops Reid into Hotch’s lap with as much care as one tosses garbage into a can. 

Hotch keens like a wounded animal as Reid collapses onto him. He barely manages to keep Spencer’s head from slamming into the concrete, and scrambles frantically to hold Reid as best as he can. His eyes roam over Reid’s face.

“You son of a bitch.” Hotch whispers the words as the fingers of his good hand gently trace over the bruises on Spencer’s face. “Look what you did to him. _Look at him!”_

He glares up at Rozzanatti, daring the man to fight, daring him to try and touch Spencer again.

_Over my dead body._

Rozzanatti’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t move. Hotch gives him one last Hotchner glare, before turning back to Reid.

“Spencer?” Hotch’s fingers skim over Reid’s cheekbones, carefully avoiding the broken skin. “Spencer, I need you to open your eyes for me.”

Reid moans softly in response, but his eyes remain stubbornly closed.

“Come on, you can do it. Just open your eyes.” Hotch traces along Reid’s hairline, curling a few pieces of hair around his fingers. “Reid? That’s an order. Open your eyes.”

Reid’s eyelids flutter, and then finally Hotch can see into those brown eyes he loves so much. They’re glazed with pain, but lucid.

“Aaron?”

“I’m right here, Reid. You’re alright.” It’s not true, not really, but he can’t let himself think otherwise, not right now.

Not when Rozzanatti is studying them with an intensity in his eyes that makes Hotch shiver.

Reid lurches in Hotch’s arms, and it takes him a moment to realize that Reid is reaching for the wound on Hotch’s head.

“You’re bleeding.” His hand waves drunkenly in the air. Hotch attempts to snag it without losing his tenuous grip on Reid.

“I’m alright, Spencer.” He gently kisses Reid’s fingertips. “I’m alright.

There’s movement to Hotch’s right, and suddenly Rozzanatti is next to him, fingers burying themselves into Hotch’s hair. Rozzanatti yanks his head back, forcing Hotch to stare up at him. Hotch gasps as pain and dizziness washed over him.

“What is he to you?” Rozzanatti’s eyes are wild with panic.

Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner catches that panic. SSA Hotchner remembers that strange look from earlier. And he finally connects the last piece of the puzzle, the missing bit of the profile.

The real reason why Mark Rozzanatti snapped.

Hotch stares into Rozzanatti’s eyes and has hope.

Maybe, just maybe, he can still save Spencer.

Reid, however, is far more concerned with the threat to Hotch at the moment.

“No!” Reid is thrashing in Hotch’s arms, fighting to get to Rozzanatti. “No, don’t -- don’t touch him, please. Please -- no, don’t!”

Hotch grips Reid as tightly as he could, trying to reassure him in the only way he can. He blinks, and then replies.

“He’s my lover.”

Rozzanatti gapes at Hotch in horror.

“Please, let him go…” Reid is babbling, desperately trying to pull himself up to defend Hotch.

Rozzanatti glances between the two of them, fear growing on his face. _“No.”_

He releases Hotch and staggers backwards.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay.” Hotch spares a moment to try and calm Reid. He smooths his hand over Reid’s hair, smiling as Reid relaxes back into him. “I’m alright.”

“You can’t be,” Rozzanatti murmurs.

Hotch glares up at him. “Does this _look_ like he’s just an agent to me? Does it really look like that?”

Rozzanatti swallows, his head shaking _no._ “But there are rules.”

“Did the rules ever stop you? You and Jerome?” Hotch is fully in control now, channeling his fear for Reid into the ferocity with which he attacks Rozzanatti. “Did you think you were the only ones breaking the rules? Did you think you could keep doing this without stumbling upon someone like you?

Rozzanatti is shaking now, remorse leaking through the cracks Hotch is tearing in the man’s armor.

“Did you want this? To take someone like Jerome from someone like you? Is this what you wanted?” It takes every ounce of Hotch’s self control to keep his voice steady. “Look at him, Mark. Look what you did. He’s dying. You’re taking from me what they took from you.” He can’t keep the tears from falling, even as he glowers at Rozzanatti.

Rozzanatti’s eyes flick from Hotch to Reid.

“Look at him,” Hotch whispers. He breaks his gaze, drops his walls, let’s Rozzanatti see himself mirrored in Hotch’s pain. “Look what you did.” He gently traces the bridge of Reid’s nose and up over his eyebrows. “He’s one of the only good things I have, Mark.”

Reid glances between Hotch and Rozzanatti, understanding growing in them. He weakly grasps at Hotch’s hand. 

“Did you have to watch?” Reid rasps. “Is that why...you make them watch?”

Rozzanatti doesn’t reply. His eyes are fixed on Hotch and Reid’s intertwined fingers. 

“Jerome wouldn’t...want this, Mark.” Reid swallows, and Hotch sees him wince. “He wouldn’t want you to...to hurt others like you.”

Rozzanatti’s hand tightens his grip on his -- Reid’s -- gun. _“No.”_

Hotch hears the desperation in the whisper, sees the brokenness in Rozzanatti’s eyes and he realizes: they read this wrong.

 _“I’m so sorry.”_ Rozzanatti whispers. He raises his gun, ignoring Hotch’s litany of _no, no, no!_

The sound of the gunshot rips through the small room like the roar of a cannon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops.
> 
> *heh*


	3. If Everyone Cared and Nobody Cried

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry for the delay. I've been moving out of my apartment and it's been exhausting. BUT I'm out now, and hoping to get back on track...though the BAU Boys have different opinions on that...

Hotch freezes when Rozzanatti raises his gun. For a split second, he thinks he’s lost, that Rozzanatti is going to shoot Reid. Then he tracks the empty look in the man’s eyes, and the continued upward movement of the gun.

Reid lets out a strangled  _ “No!” _ as Rozzanatti pulls the trigger.

Hotch knows the gun wasn’t pointed at them, but instinct forces him to bend over Reid, shielding him from a bullet that isn’t coming.

Once his ears stop ringing, Hotch hazards a glance at Rozzanatti’s body. He winces at the sight. It’s not the blood or spattered brain matter that bothers him. Hell, he doesn’t even care that the unsub is dead. Maybe he should care. Maybe he should feel an ounce of remorse that he didn’t manage to save a man who lost his lover and his partner. 

He doesn’t.

The only thing he cares about is the handcuff key in Rozzanatti’s pocket. The key that now lies on the far side of the room. The key that is the only way he can save Reid.

Hotch presses his forehead to Spencer’s.  _ “Damn it,” _ he swears. He pulls back, his eyes assessing Reid’s face.

He’s bloody and bruised, and far too pale underneath the purples and blues and reds. There’s blood in his hair and on his lips and on his knuckles. Hotch can’t see underneath the rumpled sweater vest and torn, less resilient dress shirt, but he can take a guess. He knows the files of Rozzanatti’s five other victims inside and out.

_ Severe blunt force trauma to the abdomen, resulting in ruptured liver and spleen, crushed kidneys, perforated bowel. Broken ribs, pulmonary contusion, severe pneumothorax. Primary cause of death ranges from internal bleeding from ruptured abdominal organs, hypoxemia, or blood loss due to abdominal gunshot wound. _

The medical terms swirl in Hotch’s brain, matching up with images of victims with blood coated teeth from coughing up blood, blue lips from lack of oxygen, and gore-covered hands from trying to stop the blood leaking from their bodies.

Hotch had managed to keep Rozzanatti from shooting Reid, and his pleas had cut the beating short--but he has no idea how much damage has been done. Reid isn’t frail, but he isn’t Morgan either; he doesn’t have the muscles built up to protect his bones. He needs medical attention, and the sooner the better.

But in order to get EMS here, Hotch needs a phone. And the only way to get to a phone is to get out of these damn cuffs.

The only one who can reach those keys is lying limply against Hotch right now, struggling to breath through lips already tinged with red.

Hotch’s fingers ghost across Reid’s skin again. “Spencer, I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” Reid gives him a confused, slightly concussed look.

Hotch places a gentle kiss on Reid’s forehead. “I thought I could talk him down, get him to let us go.” He shakes his head, glancing at Rozzanatti’s body on the far side of the room. “I was wrong.”

“Aaron.” Spencer waits until Hotch looks back at him. “You did.” He takes a breath, his face wrinkling in pain.  _ Broken ribs, then. _ “You...you got him to stop. You did...what you had to do.” 

He coughs weakly, trying to suppress a groan. Hotch shakes his head. There’s no way Reid can make it to that key, and no way he would even ask him to try. It’s up to him, then. Hotch wonders briefly if he has the courage to break his own thumb.

Glancing down at Reid, he knows with all certainty that he does. He’ll do anything he has to to save Spencer. No matter what the cost. He can’t lose Reid.

“I hate that look,” Reid rasps, breaking Hotch’s concentration. “You’re going to do... something heroic...and stupid.”

Hotch runs his hand over Reid’s forehead. “I’ve got to get you an ambulance.” He glances to Rozzanatti’s body. “There’s no way you can make it to that key.”

Reid grins at him, and Hotch prays the red that stains his teeth is from his split lip. 

“You’re a great profiler, but sometimes…” Reid winces, sucking in a short, sharp breath. He curls in towards Hotch with a small whimper.

“Reid, stop. Just...let me worry about this, alright?” He can’t stand seeing Reid like this: beaten, weak, and clearly in extreme pain. 

Reid shakes his head. “Hotch...I have...my cuffs.” His lips quirk in a small smile that’s so completely  _ Spencer.  _

“What?”

“Back pocket...I can’t reach. You can.”

“You...you have a set of keys?” Reid nods faintly. “Oh thank God.” Hotch kisses Reid gently. Warmth floods through him as Reid responds -- he’s strong enough to keep fighting, at least for a while. 

“You might be...the strongest kid in the room,” Reid murmurs. “But you’re...not the only kid.”

Hotch snorts --  _ an elephant’s memory indeed.  _ “Point taken.” He glances down at Reid. “Spencer...this is going to hurt. I can’t do this one handed, not gently.”

Reid nods, his face set. “I know. Just do it. I’ll be fine.”

“I love you,” Hotch whispers.

Reid rolls his eyes. “It’s just...a key. I’m not gonna die.”

_ But your pain might just kill me, _ Hotch thinks. He hates seeing Spencer hurting, always has. It’s only gotten more acute as they have grown closer together.

Hotch grits his teeth. He tries his best to keep from jostling Reid, but he doesn’t quite succeed. Reid tries to keep from whimpering, but he also fails.

Nevertheless, after what seems like far too long, Hotch is free. The handcuff smacks against the wall with a hateful clatter, and Hotch gathers Reid into his arms again. He whispers a pleading litany of  _ I’m sorry _ while his fingers gently glide over Reid’s arms. 

Finally, Reid’s pained, panicked breathing calms, and his eyes flutter open again.

“You need to get help.” His voice is worse than before, weak and hoarse. 

“I know.” Hotch glances towards the stairwell. “I hate to leave you.”

“It’s that or--” Reid breaks off, his eyes widening in horror.  _ “Aaron!” _

Hotch jumps, his eyes following Reid’s gaze.  _ Please don’t let there be a partner. _

He almost laughs when he sees what Reid’s staring at.  _ Almost _ being the operative. Seeing the bloody mess that is his right wrist reminds him of how much it hurts.

“Aaron, what the hell?” Reid reaches for Hotch’s hand. “What did you do?”

Hotch hisses as Reid’s fingers gently wrap around his injured wrist. “I tried to get to you.”

Reid looks up at him. The pained expression in his eyes pierces Hotch to the core. He’ll never forget the first time he saw that much fear and horror on Reid’s face -- Georgia, through a blurry camera as he gave up Hotch to be murdered by Raphael. 

“Hey, don’t do that,” Hotch whispers. “I couldn’t just...I couldn’t just watch.”

Reid’s face hardens. “Find something to...wrap that with.”

Hotch smiles softly down at Reid. “You’re not going to rest until I take care of this, are you?” Reid just gives him a look, one of those special Reid looks, and Hotch has to kiss him for it. 

Finally he sighs. He can’t put this off any longer. Reid’s breathing sounds awful, crackly and shallow. His grip is getting weaker, and Hotch is terrified of everything he can’t see.

“Alright, listen.” He swallows hard. “I’ve got to call the team, and then see if I can find anything useful in this damned house.” He ghosts his hand over Reid’s hair. “You...Spencer, you  _ cannot _ fall asleep. Do you understand me?”

Reid nods.

Hotch scrubs a hand over his face.  _ God, he doesn’t want to walk away from Reid. _

“I’ll be right here, Aaron.” Reid is staring at him, and Hotch has the uncomfortable feeling that he accidentally said that out loud.

“Promise me, Spence.” His voice breaks, and he curses his own weakness. “Promise me you’ll stay awake.”

Reid’s lips twitch. “I promise. You need...someone to help you wrap...that wrist.”

“I love you, Spencer Reid.”

“See you...when you get back, Aaron Hotchner.” 

Hotch grins at that, an honest grin. It’s been a code between them, since even before they started dating.  _ Can one of you look like you’ll see me again? _ It’s their way of saying  _ stay safe, I need you. _

He bends down to kiss Reid one more time. Then he straightens, stripping his jacket off. He may have to leave Reid, but he’s going to make him as comfortable as he can.

Once he’s satisfied that Reid’s in as little pain as possible, Hotch straightens up.

“You have to stay awake,” he whispers. He closes his eyes, trying to ignore the tears that slip down his cheeks. “I cannot lose you, Spencer. I can’t.”

“I’ll be right here,” Reid rasps. “I promise.”

Hotch steels himself, presses one last kiss to Reid’s lips, and then he’s gone.

* * *

Hotch retrieves his guns from the table, before finding his own phone in Rozzanatti’s pocket. There’s nothing else useful in the small basement, so he holsters his weapons and dials Morgan. He glances to Reid one last time before charging up the stairs.

There are two short rings, and then Morgan answers.

_ “Hotch?! Hotch, man, where are you? What the hell hap--” _

“Morgan.” Hotch cuts him off. “Get Garcia to trace this call, and get an ambulance here. Rozzanatti was the unsub.”

_ “What the hell?” _

“He caught Reid by surprise.” Hotch pauses, knowing what Morgan’s reaction will be to finding out what happened to Reid.

_ “Tell me he didn’t.” _

At least he didn’t have to say it.

“He did. I stopped him.” Hotch tears through each room in the house, gathering a few blankets and bottles of water. “He’s dead.”

_ “Hotch…” _ Morgan’s tone carries a warning:  _ tell me the truth. “Hotch, how bad is he.” _

Hotch freezes, trying to block out the sudden image of Reid crying out as Rozzanatti’s boot struck him.

“We need EMS, Morgan.” He finds a sheet, and begins ripping it into strips. He’s not stupid, he knows damn well he needs to take care of his own injuries before he can be of any help to Spencer.

_ “Hotch! Tell me.” _

“Rozzanatti didn’t get as far with him as the others.” It’s about the only good news he has. “But he’s not well. Morgan…” Hotch’s voice breaks, his stoicism cracking for just a second. “You need to get them here. Fast.”

_ “Garcia’s on it, Hotch. We’re coming, I promise.” _

Hotch nods, even though he knows Morgan can’t see him. “I need to get back to him.”

_ “Take care of him, Hotch. EMS says twenty minutes.” _

“Make it fifteen.” Hotch shoves his phone back in his pocket.

He gathers up the supplies -- a pillow, three blankets, strips of cotton, and some water -- and bolts back down the stairs.

He freezes as his eyes land on Reid.

_ “No! Goddamnit, no! Spencer!” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I'm...I have a problem with cliffhangers.
> 
> You, uh, may notice I was originally on track for four chapters and now there's a big ol' ?? there. Hotch and Reid decided they needed to have a lot of bonding, and Reid demanded a nightmare. So uhhhh. Yeah. We'll see how that goes. Lots more angst and also comfort in store.
> 
> Gotta get them out of this basement first, though!
> 
> I live for your comments and thoughts...like, I really do <3 Let me know if there's anything special you'd like to see in this story-- I love prompts/ideas.


	4. Confusing Stars for Satellites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! With more *checks notes* angst? Whoops.

Hotch drops his armload of blankets and water the instant he spots Reid.

His eyes are closed, head lolled to one side. He’s not moving, and from where Hotch stands, he isn’t even sure if Reid is _breathing._

_No. Please no._

_Please don’t let this be the second time I’m too late._

_Not again._

Hotch’s knees _crack_ off the concrete as he lands, but he barely registers the pain.

“Spencer? Spencer, baby, please, don’t do this to me.” Hotch’s fingers fly to Reid’s neck, and he gasps in relief. There’s a heartbeat.

_He’s alive._

It’s not much comfort to Hotch, and does little to still his own madly racing heart. Reid has suffered severe head trauma, and if Hotch can’t rouse him, he may slip into a coma. His pulse is also weak and rapid, confirming Hotch’s suspicions of internal bleeding. He could be going into haemorrhagic shock, and there’s nothing Hotch can do for him.

Hotch checks his watch: barely a minute passed since he talked to Morgan.

_Damn it._

“Spencer? I need you to open your eyes.” Hotch taps the side of Spencer’s face gently, cursing when there’s no response. “Come on, Spence. _Please._ You have to wake up.” He shakes Reid’s shoulder gently, swallowing back bile at the way Reid’s head rolls limply on the floor. “Spencer, _please._ You...you can’t leave me. You can’t leave Jack. You can’t, Spencer, you can’t--”

Hotch bites back a sob. He can’t lose his composure, not now. He has to _think._ Thinking, planning, working against impossible odds -- those are things he’s good at, reasons they hired him, reasons he’s Unit Chief, reasons why his team has the highest success rate.

But now, when it matters, when everything he cares about is on the line, he’s utterly useless.

_Just like then. Just like with Haley._

Cold fear washes over him, despite his best efforts to keep it at bay. When he’d lost Haley, he swore he wouldn’t get attached again, wouldn’t give anyone that power over him. Jack was risky enough. He wouldn’t bring another bargaining chip into his life. It had taken him far too long to admit to himself that he had invited someone into his heart years ago. 

Hotch shakes his head, trying to clear the memories away. He has to do _something._ He can’t just sit here and wait, can’t just let Spencer slip into darkness without putting up a fight. Nearly frantic, Hotch glances around the small basement, trying to find something he can use.

His eyes land on the icy cold water bottles he retrieved from Rozzanatti’s fridge. _Yes!_ He grabs at one of the bottles, uncapping it and splashing some across his hands. Reid’s breathing is too fast and laboured for Hotch to risk pouring water directly onto him, but cold hands to his face should wake him. If he can be roused.

_Please let this work._

“Open your eyes for me, Spencer.” Hotch cups Spencer’s face in his cold hands. “Wake up, please.”

Spencer moans. It’s a sickly sound, but to Hotch’s ears it’s beautiful. Reid’s head rolls a bit, trying to escape the cold, but Hotch doesn’t let go.

_Come on..._

“That’s it, Spence,” he coaxes. “You can do it. Just...open your eyes. I...I need to see those pretty brown eyes, baby.” He strokes his thumbs across Spencer’s cheekbones. “Come on, I know you’re tired, but I need you right now. Please, Spencer...”

When Reid’s eyes finally flutter open, Hotch can’t suppress his shocked sob.

“Oh thank God!” Hotch bends over Reid, still cradling his face. He presses a desperate kiss to Reid’s forehead, murmuring _thank you_ over and over again.

“A-a-aron?” Reid’s voice is barely a whisper.

“I’m here, I’m right here.” Hotch pulls back enough to look Reid in the eyes. His hands smooth over Reid’s tangled hair. “You scared me,” he breathes.

Reid’s eyes widen slightly. “Did I fall asleep?”

Hotch nods.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Spencer’s forehead creases with worry. “I tried, I tried to stay awake. I’m just...so tired, Aaron, I --”

“Shhhh, Spencer, it’s alright.” Hotch smiles gently. “You’re back with me now. That’s all I need.” He pulls back reluctantly, knowing he needs to bandage his wrist and get Spencer more comfortable.

Reid gasps. “Aaron! You’re...hurt. What happened, what did you do?”

Hotch freezes. _Spencer forgot. Spencer never forgets._

Reid must catch the look in Hotch’s eyes, because he whimpers softly. “I knew, didn’t I? I forgot?” When Hotch nods, Reid lets out a low wail. “No, no! No, Aaron, why? No, I can’t forget, I don’t forget, Aaron why did I forget?”

Hotch swears. Reid’s panicking, and he’s struggling to breathe.

“Spencer, no, calm down. It’s okay. Shhhh, listen to me, baby, please.” Reid freezes as Hotch lays his hand against Reid’s blood-streaked cheek. “You were beaten by an unsub. Badly.” Hotch can’t tell if Reid remembers or not. His eyes are still too wide and fear-filled, but he’s at least focusing. “I’m almost certain you have a concussion. And…” He trails off. He doesn’t want to worry Reid, but then again, Spencer can usually tell when he’s hiding something. “Spence, I think you’ve got internal injuries. You’re probably losing blood. That’s why you’re confused.”

Reid stares at him for a long moment. “Promise?”

Hotch’s heart breaks at the fear in Reid’s voice. “You’re not going crazy, Spencer, I promise you.”

Reid stays tense for a moment longer, then nods once as he relaxes into Hotch’s hands. Hotch blinks back tears; how did he ever manage to earn that level of trust from Spencer? _How?_

“The team?” Reid rasps.

“Morgan’s on his way. He’s bringing EMS. They’ll be here in... _shit,_ fifteen minutes.” One of Reid’s eyebrows arches at Hotch’s curse. Hotch grants himself a small smile. “Cut me some slack, I’m stressed.”

“Patch your wrist.”

Hotch shakes his head. “Spence, I need to get you--”

“Wrist.” Reid’s lips are set in a firm line.

Hotch growls at him, but he knows better than to argue. Arguing will waste time and energy--two things they don’t have right now. He gets up to retrieve the scattered supplies.

“I’ll wrap my wrist if you drink some water.”

Reid’s eyes focus on the water. He nods, and tries to sit up. It goes about as well as Hotch knew it would, and he falls back with a wounded cry.

“Damn it, Spencer.” Hotch moves forwards to catch his head. “You’re _hurt._ Let me help you.”

Somehow the two of them manage to get some water into Spencer, and some torn strips of bedsheets around Hotch’s wrist. Neither job is easy, but both are necessary.

_Eleven minutes left._

“Now can I focus on you?” Hotch asks, gently rubbing Spencer’s shoulder. When he gets a small smile in return, his hand moves to caress Reid’s face. “How are you feeling?”

“Cold,” Reid whispers. “Tired. Aaron? Aaron, everything hurts.”

Hotch swallows hard, trying to steel his face into its usual mask. Reid didn’t even try to lie. _Not good._

“I’ve got a few blankets here, Spence.” He tries to keep his tone light, but there’s a tremor in his voice that he can’t hide. “Can I wrap you up?”

The smile that lights up Reid’s face would be adorable, if it weren’t for the drunken finality in his eyes.

“I don’t...wanna die, Aaron,” he whispers. His eyelids flutter weakly.“But I’ll be okay...if you hold me.”

Hotch’s heart stutters to a dead stop. “No. No, Spence. You’re not dying. I just...just let me get you warm, okay? Just hang on for me.”

_Nine minutes._

_Hurry up._

Hotch manages to pull Reid into his arms with a blanket tucked around him. Reid hardly protests. He’s limp and quiet, and it sends splintered shards of fear into Hotch’s skin.

“Spencer? Hey, stay with me.” Reid’s eyes flutter closed, and Hotch panics. “Spence! Wake up. Don’t...Spencer, stay, _please.”_

Reid jumps a bit, his eyes flickering open. “‘m tired.”

Hotch rubs a hand across his eyes, trying to get rid of the tears that are threatening again. “I know, baby, I know. Just...I need you to hang on a little longer.”

“Talk to me?” The words are barely audible, Reid’s labored, shallow breaths making it difficult for him to talk.

Hotch nods. He can talk. He’s got eight minutes. He can talk for that long, surely. Spencer once saved them both by talking for nearly fifteen minutes. Hotch can make eight to keep Spencer alive.

Besides, he has something he wants to say.

“Spence, I need...I want you to know something. Hey, look at me, this is important.” Reid gives him a drunken smile. “I told Rozz--I told the unsub, earlier, that you were one...one of the only good things in my life.” Hotch’s breath catches in his throat. Spencer looks like death. “I meant that, Spencer. You and Jack. You’re the only things that keep me going.” Hotch cups Reid’s cheek in his hand. “Waking up next to you, every day...I can’t imagine you not being there. Sometimes...sometimes I just look out into the bullpen, just so I can see you. Just to watch you.”

_Seven minutes._

Spencer turns his head, and Hotch feels his lips -- dry, cracked, and bloody -- caress his palm.

“I think...I think I first really _loved_ you that day with Prentiss when you set off that rocket.” He has to grin in spite of himself at the memory. Reid had looked so scared. “You never stop showing off, you never stop _loving_ to show things to people.”

Spencer’s chest hitches, and Hotch freezes. 

_No, no, no!_

Reid curls into Hotch as harsh, wet coughs wrack his body. When he pulls back, there’s blood on Hotch’s shirt and a dull look to Reid’s eyes. Horror fills Hotch. He knows that look.

_Death._

“Aaron…” 

Hotch leans in closer, trying desperately to hear what Spencer is struggling to say. His grip tightens on Spencer’s shoulder, as if he can physically _hold_ him in this world.

“I’m...s-sorry.” He sucks in a breath -- shallow and labored. “I can’t...stay.”

_Please. Not this. Not here._

“No. Spencer.” Hotch can feel the tears on his face, running as freely as they had when Foyet pulled that trigger. “No, baby, _please.”_

_Morgan, where the hell are you!_

“I love you...Aaron.” The next breath is shorter than the last. “Thank...you.”

Hotch barely has time to register Spencer’s words before his lover goes completely limp in his arms.

_Five and a half minutes._

_He’s out of time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm awful with these cliffhangers. They just....they're such great ways to end a chapter. *evil laughter*
> 
> Thanks again for your comments! Most of you in this fandom don't know me (I think I have one crossover from the Morseverse), but writing is a major coping method of mine. Often it's the only thing I can do when I'm tired or anxious or depressed, and seeing everyone's comments helps me to feel like I'm making a difference even if I feel awful. (I'm currently mostly okay, I just wanted to share that fact.)
> 
> Anyhow, come chat with me on tumblr, or shout prompts at me in the comments. I live for prompts and reader interaction. 
> 
> I'm off to go watch my nightly dose of Criminal Minds (S4 Ep 04: Paradise is where we are starting tonight). Hopefully I won't be up until 3am again....heh...


	5. Singing Amen, I'm Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should probably be noted that I am the Queen of the Impulse post. AKA, no beta, we die like men. Apologies for typos and such. 
> 
> Unrelated note, I just had a traumatic experience with a cup of coffee and now I'm scarred for life. I'm telling you this because it's 11:30 pm and I have no control.

Hotch’s entire world shatters as Spencer goes limp in his arms. For a moment, Hotch is frozen -- he can’t think, can’t act, can’t  _ move. _ Everything else fades into the background, and he’s left with the motionless, lifeless body of his lover.  _ His _ Spencer.  _ His _ Boy Genius.  _ His  _ Pretty Boy.

_ Dead. _

_ Beaten to death. _

There’s something awful in those words, and the meaning behind them. Hotch had torn Foyet to pieces over what he’d done to Haley, but she hadn’t  _ suffered. _ She’d been afraid, and then she’d been gone. It had hurt, God had it hurt. But this…this was something vile, memories that would fester and burn.

Spencer had been in pain. Confused, frightened, and hurting. He had  _ suffered _ and Hotch had witnessed every second of it.

He knew he would never get those screams out of his mind. Never get the sight of Spencer out of his mind as he lay writhing on the floor, desperately trying to get away from Rozzanatti’s boots. He would never forget the way Spencer’s blood stained the concrete, never scrub his hands clean of these rusty stains.

_ Dead. _

_ Gone. _

_ Alone. _

Hotch bends over Reid’s body, and sobs.

* * *

Morgan breaks down the door with enough force to tear it completely from its hinges. He doesn’t care. He’ll tear the house apart with his bare hands if he has to. The kid needs him. Hotch needs him. Nothing --  _ nothing _ \-- will get in his way.

The door slams into the opposite wall, and Morgan barges through. Every light seems to be on, but nothing moves.

“FBI!” Morgan shouts. He pauses, listening. 

Hotch said Rozzanatti was dead, and they had no reason to think he had a partner, but the last thing they needed was to end up with another agent down.

“Morgan!” Hotch’s voice sounds muffled, but there’s no mistaking the absolute terror in his shout.

Morgan has  _ never _ heard that much fear in Hotch’s voice. Ever.

“Hotch! Hotch, where are you?”

“Basement! Morgan, I need a medic. He’s not breathing!”

Morgan’s heart drops, and he nearly lowers his gun in his panic.  _ Don’t lose focus. _

“We’re coming, hang on.”

Methodically, Morgan and the officers with him clear the path to the basement. The medics trail behind them, equipment slung over their shoulders. It seems like ages before Morgan finally makes it to the bottom of the stairs.

He freezes at the sight in front of him.

It’s like Georgia, but it isn’t. It’s worse.

Reid is a mess -- his whole face is covered in blood, and his hair is clumped and matted with more blood. He’s limp, completely motionless as he lies on the ground. He’s been beaten, and  _ badly. _

And then there’s Hotch.

The first thing Morgan notices is the dried blood on the side of Hotch’s face, and the bloody fabric wrapped around one of his wrists. The kid isn’t the only one in need of medical attention. Seeing Hotch injured is enough to throw Morgan. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Hotch this bad off.

But it’s the look on his face that cements Morgan’s feet to the floor.

_ He’s terrified. _

There’s a look of wild horror in his eyes, and devastation is written all over his face. He’s frantically pulling a blanket off of Reid, and his fingers are shaking as he lays them against Spencer’s neck. He looks... _ lost. _

“Morgan, help me.” Hotch glances up to Morgan; there are tears glittering in his eyes. “I just lost him. He was talking...he’s not breathing. He’s...his heart...God, someone help me!”

The SSA Aaron Hotchner that Morgan relies on is  _ gone, _ replaced with someone Morgan’s only seen twice. Once with Agent Kate Joyner, and once with Haley. Hotch is desperate, injured, and completely out of it.

Morgan barely registers the paramedics as they press past him. He’s lost for a moment in a world of just him, Hotch, and Reid. That world is collapsing fast, as every second steals more oxygen from Reid’s brain and leaves more tear-tracks on Hotch’s face. Morgan knows, with a certainty he can’t explain, that if they lose Reid here, Hotch won’t come back.

“Sir! Sir -- you need to let us work.  _ Agent!” _ The paramedic’s urgent voice shatters Morgan’s nightmare, and he snaps back to attention.

Hotch is lost. He’s trying to help Reid, but he’s only getting in the way of the people who  _ can _ help Reid. 

Morgan surges forward, wrapping his arms around Hotch.

“Hotch, man, you’ve got to let them work!” He tugs backwards, grateful when Hotch follows without a fight. Though Morgan wonders how badly he’s hurting, that he doesn’t even argue. “C’mon, man. Let them work. They’ll save him. He’ll be okay, Hotch.”

Hotch is trembling --  _ actually _ trembling -- in Morgan’s arms. He’s watching the medics with a haunted ghost of his usual intensity.

“Morgan, he stopped...he stopped breathing,” Hotch murmurs. In the next second, he lunges forward. “Help him! Please, help him -- please!”

Morgan manages to keep Hotch from accidentally tackling the medics, who have started CPR on Reid.

“Hotch, hey! Calm down! You’re not helping. Take it easy, man.” 

Hotch calms, but he’s still tense under Morgan’s hands.  _ Still shaking. _

They stay like that, in an odd half-embrace, as the medics work to save Spencer. The dark and the damp and the fear all bring back too many memories of  _ Georgia _ and  _ Tobias _ and  _ kill me.  _ It’s awful and painful and terrifying.

And all they can do is  _ watch. _

* * *

One minute, Reid is dead on that floor while gloved hands try to force life back into him. The next second, he’s coughing and gagging and curling up with the force of his coughs. The sound is horrible -- wet and rough -- and Reid’s face is contorted in pain.

Hotch has never seen anything so beautiful.

_ Spencer is alive. _

The medics are moving, tossing medical terms and supplies back and forth over Spencer, trying to keep him alive. Hotch can barely pay attention, and he wonders faintly how much blood  _ he _ has lost. Not as much as Reid, but enough to leave him groggy. He vaguely registers Morgan letting him go, leaning back a bit to give him space.

“Agent, sir, does he have a name?” Hotch’s attention snaps to the medic closest to him. He can’t respond, his brain sluggishly filtering through all the things only he calls Spencer, but knowing that none of them are the right answer.

“Reid. His name is Reid,” Morgan says. He lays a hand on Hotch’s shoulder, the gentle pressure somehow grounding Hotch.

“Mr. Reid? Sir? Can you hear me?” The medic shines a light in Reid’s face, looking for any kind of response. “Mr. Reid, if you can hear me--”

“Doctor,” Hotch rasps.

The medic glances over his shoulder, confusion etched across his face. “Excuse me?”

“Doctor Reid,” Hotch corrects him. “He’s a doctor. He has five PhD’s. Doctor Reid.”

The medic gapes at him. Then he shakes his head and turns back to Spencer. “Doctor? Doctor Reid, c’mon buddy, wake up for me.”

_ Buddy _ bothers Hotch, but it doesn’t matter because it  _ works _ and Spencer’s eyes are open. He’s awake, and he’s responding but something’s  _ wrong. _

He’s panicking.

Spencer’s eyes are wide and unfocused, darting from one medic to the other. He starts to fight them, pulling against the hold they have on his arms and shoulders. He’s weak, too weak to do much damage to them, but he’s inhibiting their work.

Reid lets out a low wail. “No! Aaron! Aaron, help...help me. No, get...get away, please...get away…”

Hotch wrenches himself away from Morgan. “Spence, I’m here. I’m right here. You’re okay, it’s okay.”

One of the medics moves aside, noting the way Reid responds to Hotch’s voice. Reid curls towards Hotch, clearly trying to escape the medic on his left. Hotch follows Reid’s horrified gaze, and spots the needle in the medic’s hands.

“No--no, please. Aaron, don’t--don’t let them. Please, I don’t wanna. I don’t...I don’t want it. I don’t...Aaron, please.” 

Hotch grabs Reid’s hand in his, and glares at the medic. “Put it down.”

She blanches under his glare. “Sir, he needs to be sedated, he’s --”

“Put. It. Down.” Reid keens, leaning into Hotch. “He’s been drugged before, by an unsub.”

“Sir, he has to--” 

_ “It can wait.” _ Hotch glowers at her. “Let me calm him.” He pauses, the second meaning in Reid’s words finally catching up. “No narcotics. At all.”

“Sir, are you sure? He--”

_ “None,” _ Hotch hisses.

The medic gulps and nods.

Hotch bends over Reid, blocking his view of the needle. “Hey, Spence. It’s okay. They’re...here to help. EMTs, okay?”

Reid’s eyes flick over Hotch’s face. “Don’t...I don’t wanna fall...again. Aaron, don’t let me.” Hotch can barely catch Spencer’s words, garbled and slurred as they are. He’s fading in and out of reality, barely conscious. But there’s honest fear in his eyes, and Hotch can read inbetween the mangled syllables. “Don’t leave me. Please...I don’t...wanna be alone. Please…”

“I’m not going to leave you.” Hotch smooths his hand over Reid’s hair. He sees the medic slide an IV needle into Reid’s arm. “I won’t leave you. I promise. Spencer, I promise you.”

“Sir.” The medic’s voice is strong this time. She won’t be argued with this time. “Sir, we need to move him, or we’re going to lose him.  _ Now.” _

Hotch feels a hand at his shoulder, and hears Morgan’s low murmur. He lets Morgan pull him back, tries to drown out Reid’s panicked moan. Then the medics are moving, lifting Reid onto a backboard, and up the stairs. Hotch staggers forward, nearly falling into the wall as his legs give out on him.

“Whoa, there.” The strong arms around him aren’t Morgan’s. It might be another EMT, but Hotch can’t really focus on anything other than the team of medics around Reid. “Hey, I think you need some attention.”

Hotch shakes his head. “I have...I have to go with him.”

Morgan steps up to them, says something that Hotch doesn’t catch. He feels the EMT take a deep breath.

“Alright. You can ride along, but I’m gonna look you over, okay? And you can’t get in their way.”

Hotch nods. He knows how this goes. He hates that he knows.

He’s nearly at the stairs before his brain catches up with him. _Morgan._ _Shit._

“Derek.” His voice is weak, and he hates himself for it. “You’re in charge. Clear this place. Then get...get everyone to the hospital.” He turns for a moment, catching Morgan’s eye.

Morgan looks nearly as wrecked as he feels.

“Hotch, I got it, man.” His eyes follow the sounds of Reid’s entourage. “Take care of him. Make sure...make sure he stays with us, okay?”

Hotch nods. “I can’t lose him, Morgan.”

“Hey,” Morgan steps up to him, one hand on Hotch’s arm. “The kid’s strong, alright? He’s in good hands. He’ll...he’ll make it.” Morgan swallows hard. “He has to.”

_ He’ll make it. He has to. _ The words echo in Hotch’s mind as he follows the medics up the stairs.

He has to make it. Because if he doesn’t, Hotch isn’t sure he can keep going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's not a *bad* cliffie!
> 
> Also, send help, my brain may have decided to throw in some dream/flashbacks of the beginnings of Hotch and Reid's relationship. Because my brain _does this_ every time I write. For the love of cookies.
> 
> Your comments bring me life. Please know I read every one of them _multiple times. _I often try to reply to everyone, but my life is a bit chaotic rn and I don't always have the spoons to do so. But I love them. Also, pls come scream at me on tumblr (imaginationtherapy or bau-gremlin)__


	6. We Realize How Small We Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May I present to you, yet another un-beta'd and un-edited chapter.
> 
> My writing "process" is this: imagine scenes in my head for three days, rewrite them in my head several times, smack them down on paper, hit "post". Very academic, obviously. :-D
> 
> This is ... yet another case of characters who demand to have a scene. I swear, Rossi wasn't even supposed to show up in this story, and yet here he is, dominating the chapter. *sigh*

Rossi barely manages to hear his phone’s ring over the sound of wailing sirens. He glances down at the caller ID. Morgan.  _ Good. _ Maybe someone will finally tell him what the hell is going on. One minute, he’d been interviewing the partner of the unsub’s latest victim, the next he’d been on the phone with a panicked and confused Garcia.

_ Morgan needs you. He said it’s urgent. I don’t know what’s happening. I think it’s Hotch and Reid. _

He’d torn out of the hospital parking lot at breakneck speed, lights and sirens on, no clue what he was getting himself into. He’s still trying to figure out what could have gone wrong when Morgan’s call comes through.

“Morgan, talk to me.”

“How fast can you get to the hospital?” Morgan sounds like he’s on the edge, teetering between control and chaos.

It should concern Rossi, but right now he’s too confused to keep up.

“The hosp -- Morgan, I just  _ left _ the hospital!”

“Turn around,” Morgan snaps. “You need to meet Hotch at the ER.” 

_ Shit. _

“What the hell is going on?” Rossi checks his mirrors, and spins the SUV around.

“Turn around, get to the hospital,” Morgan snaps.

“I am.” Rossi resists the urge to swear at Morgan in Italian. “Would you please tell me why I’m supposed to be looking for Hotch at the ER of the hospital that  _ I just left?”  _

Morgan takes a deep breath. “They went to that interview, of the witness, remember?”

“Mark Rozzanatti, I remember.” He’d suggested it, but reminding Morgan would probably just delay the story.

“He was the unsub.” Morgan pauses, and Rossi can hear him giving orders to someone in the background. “I’m still not really sure what happened, but he got to Reid.”

Rossi’s heart stutters.  _ Oh, God. Not Reid. _ The crime scene photos are fresh in his memory. As are the haunted eyes of the last officer’s surviving partner. If Rozzanatti followed the pattern, if he made Hotch watch -- Rossi shakes his head. He can’t think like that, not now.

“How bad?” Rossi asks. Somehow, his voice comes out steadier than he feels.

The pause from Morgan is too full of silent screams and blind tears.

_ Not good. _

“He wasn’t breathing when I got here, Rossi.” Morgan pauses, and Rossi is grateful for the lapse. He can’t see straight, and has to blink the blurriness away. “They got him back, but he wasn’t making much sense. They wheeled him out just a few minutes ago. Hotch wouldn’t let him out of his sight.”

_ Fuck. _ Rossi scrubs a hand over his face.  _ Hotch had to watch. _ The thought makes him sick, nauseous in a way he doesn’t usually get on cases. He knows about Hotch and Reid, though he’s the only one who does. He knows how much Hotch cares. He knows... _ shit. _

Rossi shudders. He’s seen Hotch’s haunted eyes before, after Haley. He can’t imagine what  _ this _ will do to Hotch.

He needs to get to the hospital.

“Rossi,” Morgan’s voice breaks his train of thought. “I’m worried about Hotch. He had one hell of a gash on his head. His face was covered in blood.” There’s another pause, and Rossi hears something  _ clink _ in the background. “And it looks like he went ten rounds with these cuffs.”

Rossi resists the urge to gag again. He knows quite well the psychological torture Rozzanatti put the supposed  _ stronger _ partner through. He has seen the injuries first hand. They were bad enough, cuts and bruises from trying to get free.

But those men weren’t Hotch. They didn’t have the same passion, that unending drive to protect. Hotch would kill himself trying to save any member of the team. But this was  _ Reid.  _

None of that would make sense in a court, or even to try and explain to some LEO. But everyone in the team knew the lengths they would each go to protect Reid, even though he was a far cry from the boy he’d been early on. And everyone who even glanced in Hotch’s direction could sense his intensity. 

Hotch had probably nearly severed his own hand.

“Rossi?” Morgan breaks into his train of thought.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“I’m worried Hotch’ll refuse medical attention.”  _ He will. _ “He didn’t look good.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Rossi promised. Exactly  _ how _ he expected to do that, he had no idea. The man was a stubborn bastard, and again -- this was  _ Reid. _ His Reid.

“Thanks.”

“You’re right to be worried. It’s a good call.” Rossi clears his throat. “Can you handle the scene?”

“Yeah, Emily and JJ are on their way, and I’ve got a good group of LEO’s with me. I got this.”

“I know you do, Morgan. Be careful.”

“I will. Hey, Rossi?”

“Yeah?”

“Call? As soon...as soon as you know anything?”

“I will.”

He hangs up, somehow resisting the urge to throw his phone. Hotch can’t go through this again. And Reid, God, hadn’t the kid been through enough?

Rossi swears.

And then he prays.

* * *

Rossi makes it to the ER just as Hotch and Reid’s ambulance pulls up. The doors fly open, and he can just make out the nurses unloading a gurney. The figure --  _ Reid _ \-- isn’t moving, but he isn’t covered by a sheet either.

_ Small mercies. _

He’s hurrying his way towards the ER entrance when the storm that is Aaron Hotchner stumbles out of the ambulance. Even from a distance, Rossi can tell he’s fighting the EMTs. He’ll want to be with Reid, or at least as close as he can get. Judging from what Morgan said, he won’t be thinking straight either, due to the head injury. Rossi sighs. At least he’s used to going toe-to-toe with an upset Hotchner.

He picks up his pace as the commotion increases. As he gets closer, Rossi can better assess Hotch’s condition.

Morgan was right. He looks like hell.

There’s dried blood coating the side of his face, and it looks like it’s dripped down to his collar. His shirt has smudges of blood and dirt all over it, his suit jacket nowhere in sight. The part that worries Rossi the most is the bloodied shirt sleeve, and rusty-red fabric that’s wrapped haphazardly around Hotch’s wrist.

“I have to go with him!” Hotch’s voice rises above the pandemonium. He’s in full SSA Hotchner mode, but there’s a tinge of hysteria on the edge of his words. “No, you don’t -- you don’t understand. Let go -- let go of me! I don’t --”

Rossi barrels through the gathering nurses. “Hotch! Hotch, look at me.” Rossi grabs Hotch’s arms, forcibly stopping his movement. “Hotch. Hotch, listen to me. Aaron!  _ Aaron Hotchner!”  _ That gets Hotch’s attention. “Get a hold of yourself!”

Hotch stills, his wide eyes focusing on the man standing in his way. Rossi winces. Hotch looks even worse close up. His face is smeared with blood and dirt and what Rossi strongly suspects are tears. There’s a concussed look in his eyes, and his skin is an unhealthy color. He’s in no condition to go chasing down Reid in the hospital. Frankly, Rossi is surprised he’s even still standing.

“Hotch, you can’t go back there. You know that.” Rossi tries to keep his voice calm, tries to keep his own rising panic hidden. He’s never seen Hotch like this. Not even with Haley and Foyet.

Hotch’s hands wrap around Rossi’s arms, gripping onto him for support.

“Dave -- Dave, it’s Spencer.” He sounds so broken suddenly, all the fight draining from him in one moment.

“I know. Morgan told me.” Rossi glances at the nurse closest to him. She gives him a subtle nod, recognizing that he’s in control of Hotch. “Hotch, you need to see a doctor, okay?”

Hotch stiffens, his eyes flicking over Rossi's shoulder. “No! Dave, I need to be with him. I’m...I’m his proxy, I need to tell them...I need to be there…”

“Hey, Aaron, slow down.” Rossi tightens his grip on Hotch’s arms. Hotch is starting to sway unsteadily, and Rossi doesn’t want him crashing to the floor and hitting his head. One head wound is more than enough. “There’s nothing you can do for him back here. You would only be in the way. They’ve got him. I promise.”

“Dave...I need to be with him.” There’s a heartache in Hotch’s eyes that burns into Rossi’s skin.

“You need to get yourself taken care of.” Rossi squeezes Hotch’s shoulder. “When he comes to, he’s not going to want to see you like this.”

Hotch blinks, and then glances down to study himself. The sight of the blood on his shirt seems to remind him of everything that’s happened. Hotch staggers to the side, moaning something that sounds like Reid’s name. Rossi barely has time to call out to the nurse before Hotch collapses. 

They manage to maneuver him gently to the floor. 

“He needs a doctor,” Rossi snaps at the nurse. “Now.”

The nurse nods. “I’ll get a team and a gurney.”

Rossi turns his attention back to Hotch. “Aaron? Hey. You with me?”

“Spencer,” Hotch whispers. 

“I’ll keep tabs on him,” Rossi pushes Hotch back against the wall as he tries to rise. “I’ll make sure they know about the narcotics, and where to find you.”

“Dave, he needs me.” Hotch’s eyes are unfocused, and he seems to be staring at things that Rossi can’t see.

“He needs you to be well, Hotch.” Rossi runs one hand up Hotch’s arm, trying to comfort the man. “He’s going to want to see you, and you have to be...you need to be patched up first, okay?”

Hotch’s head lolls to the side as he tries to make eye contact. “Please...take care of him?”

“I will. You go with the doctors. I’ll make sure Reid gets the care he needs.”

“Dave?” Rossi hums in response. “Come back for me.” Hotch straightens, a bit of his old fire coming back into his eyes. “As soon...as soon as they --”

Rossi hears the clattering footsteps of the nurse returning. “As soon as the doctor clears you, or I know how Reid is, I’ll be back.”  
Hotch nods. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Rossi squeezes Hotch’s hand once, before stepping back to let the nurses in. He takes a moment to give his card to one of them, explaining that he needs to check in on another of his agents. She nods, and promises to get in touch with him regarding Hotch’s treatment.

Then Hotch is gone, whisked into the bowels of the hospital.

Rossi is left standing there, mostly alone. The ghosts of Hotch’s grief and Morgan’s concern float around him, though. Rossi shudders at the cold fear that surrounds him.

If they lose Reid…

_ They just might lose the BAU. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked!! There's...a lot to come. I can't write short things.
> 
> Anyhow, hit me up with comments or PROMPTS (no one has a prompt yet...come at me, y'all)
> 
> I'm on tumblr, with my writeblr (imaginationtherapy), my chaotic main blog (bau-gremlin) and a random Penelope Garcia character blog that I decided to create (bau-babygirl). *shrug* 
> 
> Love you all!


	7. I Never Dreamed that You'd be Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh yes, another chapter that I decided to throw together in the space of an hour.  
> Why am I this chaotic?
> 
> Featuring: Rossi being a Dad (again)

By the time Rossi finds his way back to the ER, he’s had time to check in with Morgan, find out what’s happening with Reid, and retrieve Hotch’s ready bag from a helpful LEO. The last thing any of them needs is to stare at Hotch’s bloodied shirt (or some half-open hospital gown). Rossi swings by the nurse’s station in the ER to find out where Hotch is, then heads to update Hotch on Reid.

He wishes he had better news to give.

Hotch’s head snaps up as soon as Rossi’s shadow crosses the threshold. He looks better with the blood washed off of his face and with the makeshift bandage on his wrist replaced by crisp, white gauze. He’s still pale, but his eyes have regained some of that Hotchner sternness.

“How is he?” The words are quiet, edged with danger and desperation. Hotch wants  _ answers. _

Rossi sighs, tossing Hotch’s bag onto the bed. “They took him directly back for scans and x-rays as soon as he cleared the doors.”

Rossi cants his head, studying Hotch. There’s really no reason to go into everything the nurses had told Rossi. Trauma and bleeding and surgery...Hotch just needs to know that Reid is in good hands. That he’s being given every chance there is. He doesn’t need to know the exact odds.

“He’s in surgery now,” Rossi finishes.

Hotch stares at him for a moment before dropping his eyes to his bag. “How bad?”

“Hotch.” Rossi takes a step closer to his friend. “He’s in surgery. That’s really all there is.” He’s begging with Hotch --  _ please don’t make me tell you. _

Hotch freezes. His gaze is fixed calmly on the bag in front of him, but Rossi isn’t fooled. Hotch has always known how to use his height and his broad shoulders to intimidate. He doesn’t need to be looking at you to threaten you.

“I asked you  _ how bad.” _ His words are clipped, but full of authority. 

“Hotch, don’t do this to yourself,” Rossi murmurs.

Hotch whips his head, his eyes blazing with pain and anger. As much as Rossi pretends to be immune to the Hotchner Glare -- he did  _ train _ Hotch, to be fair -- there’s something unsettling in the way Hotch is staring him down. He takes an involuntary step back, trying to put a bit of distance between himself and the wounded animal that is Aaron Hotchner.

“Do you remember Benjamin Cyrus?” Hotch bites out. His chest is heaving with what Rossi knows from experience is barely restrained anger. “Do you remember how it felt? Waiting? Unable to help them?” Hotch is trembling, and Rossi doesn’t know if it’s rage or fear or exhaustion. Maybe all three. “Do you remember listening to Emily? While Cyrus... _ beat  _ her? Because this was  _ worse, _ Dave.”

Hotch grabs his bag with savage ferocity. He rips open the zipper and turns his glare to the contents.

“Because this time, I had to  _ watch.” _ Hotch’s voice is low, with that dangerous quiet that’s nearly as intimidating as his verbal outbursts. “This time, it was  _ Spencer.”  _ He glares up at Rossi, and this time, there are tears slipping down his cheeks. They only serve to make him look more dangerous. “It was  _ Spencer, _ Dave.  _ My _ Spencer. And I had to...I had…” Hotch pauses, turning his head away as he catches his breath.

Rossi wants to move, wants to try and comfort Hotch or put a stop to whatever this is. But Hotch is volatile when he’s this upset. The only person Rossi’s ever seen to calm Hotch when he’s like this is lying in an operating room, fighting for his life.

“He  _ died. _ In my arms. I held him as he  _ died.” _ Hotch straightens his shoulders as he turns back to Rossi. “Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

“Aaron --”

_ “Don’t,”  _ Hotch hisses. “Whatever they told you, whatever it is that you're hiding, it can’t be worse than watching him die.” Suddenly, Hotch  _ wilts -- _ his shoulders slump, and his head sags. “That’s twice I’ve watched him die, Dave.”

_ “What?” _ Rossi knows there are stories he hasn’t heard about Reid, but he thinks he would have heard  _ that one. _

“Tobias.”

It’s one word, but Rossi can fill in enough of the gaps. He’s only gotten bits and pieces of the story, enough to know about the torture and the drugs and the aftermath. Nobody mentioned  _ that. _

Rossi eases himself down onto the bed next to Hotch. “I’m sorry.”

Hotch meets his eyes, and the change in his face nearly takes Rossi’s breath away. Hotch is  _ broken. _ Even after Haley, Rossi’s never seen him like this.

“Every time I think I have a handle on what this job can do to me, it proves me wrong.” Hotch’s voice is soft. “I give everything I have, and still I lose them.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how many more people I can lose, Dave.”

Slowly and cautiously, Rossi moves to lay a hand on Hotch’s shoulder. “He’s strong, Aaron. He’s a fighter.”

Intense sorrow fills Hotch’s eyes. “He’s fought so much already. This world...God, Dave, he deserves a break.”

“So do you,” Rossi murmurs. “The both of you. You’ve been through too much.” He takes a deep breath. “But I know the both of you have come out stronger. You’re fighters. Don’t give up on him, Hotch.”

Hotch’s chest expands as he sucks in a shaky breath. He nods. “Tell me. I...I need to know.”

_ Damn it. _

Rossi wishes he could say almost anything but the truth.

“He’s in rough shape, Aaron.” Hotch stiffens. “ Multiple broken ribs, severe abdominal bleeding, probable internal organ damage, bleeding in the lungs. He went in for surgery about a half hour ago.” Rossi swallows. “They really aren’t sure of his chances.”

Hotch’s shoulders sag. “My God,” he whispers.

“He’s in the best care that he can be, Hotch.” Rossi tightens his grip on Hotch’s shoulder. “All we can do is wait.”

Hotch’s body shudders. “I can’t lose him.” He scrubs a hand over his face. When he begins talking again, Rossi isn’t sure he’s meant to be listening. “He’s my solace. I don’t know what...I don't know how to  _ be _ without him.” He pauses, and then looks up at Rossi. Hotch looks utterly lost. “I know I’m...I’m supposed to keep going, for Jack. But without Spence…” He stares back at his hands. “What kind of a father does that make me?”

This, Rossi can handle. “A human one.” When Hotch gives him a bewildered look, Rossi continues. “Man isn’t meant to live alone, Hotch. C’mon, you know that. It’s why this team is a family-- we need each other. You like to think you’re some pillar of concrete strength, that you don’t need anyone. You’re human, Hotch.”

Hotch is quiet for a long while, and Rossi gives him time. The OR nurses know where to find them, and the team will meet them on that floor. Hotch needs this, needs space to process before he has to be SSA Hotchner for his team. Whatever happened in that basement -- and Rossi has a good idea -- was hell on Hotch, and not just in the ways the team will see.

Rossi isn’t sure if Hotch and Reid ever intend to tell the rest of the team about their relationship. He doesn’t blame them for keeping it a secret, though he often wonders if there’s more to it than just workplace fraternization.  There’s a fae look in Reid’s eyes sometimes that looks like he’s just waiting to be pushed away.

Rossi shakes his head. This isn’t the time nor the place for those musings. He can ask Hotch later, if it becomes necessary. For now, the man needs space to deal with at least some of his grief over what happened to Reid before he has to put on his stoic mask and be the team’s leader.

“He saved me, you know.” Hotch’s faint whisper breaks the silence. “After Haley. He cooked for me and Jack. Took Jack to the museum with Henry. He bought me coffee.” Hotch laughs, but it's tinged with worry. “Actual, ground coffee. Different flavors. Said it would give me something to focus on in the mornings.” Hotch pauses, staring into his memories with wonder in his eyes. “He was right.”

“I’m not blind, you know,” Rossi mutters. “I knew what he was doing.”

Hotch shakes his head. “No. He wasn’t...he wasn’t  _ doing _ anything. He was just...there. In a way I don’t think anyone else could be.” He pauses, then stares Rossi in the eye. “Do you believe in soulmates?”

Rossi just stares back at him.  _ Aaron Hotchner, asking about something as romantic as  _ soulmates?

“How hard did you hit your head?” Rossi responds.

The grin Hotch gives him almost reaches his eyes.

“Haley and I...I loved her, Dave. I really did.” His forehead wrinkles in thought. “We grew apart, after I joined the BAU. It became a passion of mine, and I...I left her behind.”

“Hotch…” He doesn’t need to go there, doesn’t need to go down that path right now.

Hotch brushes him off. “No, I know. We...we both changed. What I wanted and what she wanted...we became different people.” He takes a deep breath. “She was always so innocent. She didn’t understand this life, or how it affected me. How the darkness got under my skin, and how each success could chase it away for a little while.” He shrugs. “We changed. I couldn’t be who she needed me to be.”

Rossi opens his mouth to interrupt, but Hotch waves him off.

“It’s alright, Dave. I know, it wasn’t all my fault. But...Spencer.” Hotch shakes his head. “He knows. He knows and he’s seen what I’ve seen and he’s been through what I’ve been through and...he just  _ knows.” _ He glances back at Rossi. “I loved Haley. I still do. But not like this. Not the way I love Spence.” 

Hotch falls silent for a moment, but Rossi doesn’t push him. This feels too much like it’s Hotch’s own way of processing this. None of this is for Rossi’s benefit.

“It’s like...he fits me, Dave.” Hotch laughs again, though it's a bit of a skeptical sound. “It sounds ridiculous, but he does.”

_ That _ Rossi has an answer for.

“I told you I’m not blind.” Hotch looks up at Rossi in shock. “You two do fit. I don’t understand it either, but you’re like...well, peanut butter and jelly.”

Hotch goes dead silent.  _ “What?” _

Rossi laughs at the expression on Hotch’s face. “You’re strong and stable and, as the kids say,  _ salty. _ Reid is sweet, with just a touch of sour.” He shrugs. “Hey, you went all mushy on me.”

Hotch’s lips twitch into a ghost of a grin. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t have to say any more. Rossi can read between the lines.  _ Thank you for listening. Thank you for not laughing. Thank you for supporting us. Thank you for keeping this secret.  _

_ Thank you for letting me be weak. _

He’s a poor substitute for Spencer, Rossi knows. But he can listen, and he can keep Hotch’s secrets. If that’s what Hotch needs, he’ll do it as long as he has to.

“C’mon,” Rossi squeezes Hotch’s shoulder. “The team should be here soon. Let’s get you changed, and then we can head up to the OR.”

Hotch nods, but doesn’t move.

“Aaron.” Rossi waits until Hotch looks up. “He’ll pull through. Don’t let yourself think otherwise.”

Hotch stands up, one of his dress shirts in his hands. “He has to. I need him too much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this story, I hadn't even *met* Rossi yet. Now I'm on season five and Rossi has decided to insert himself into this story as Hotch's BFF/wingman/mentor/DAD.
> 
> On an unrelated note, I was definitely singing the song "Paparazzi" but it was "Pappa Rossi" instead. *sigh*
> 
> THANKS FOR YOUR COMMENTS. <3 I 100% reread them DAILY. I usually try to be better about responding to comments, but my physical health has been bleh lately and keeping up with communication is a s t r u g g l e.
> 
> Anyhow, I love you all <3 This story keeps getting longer, mostly because Rossi and Hotch keep having EMOTIONS. *sigh*


	8. Here We Are, We're Here Tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a chapter that was meant to be three paragraphs, but turned into a _whole dang chapter. ___
> 
> _  
> _Featuring: a trauma surgeon, a traumatized Hotch, worried!Morgan, and Pappa Rozzi._  
> _

Hotch pauses just before they round the corner to the OR waiting room. Rossi can clearly hear Morgan and Prentiss; he assumes JJ is with them.

“Hey, if you can’t do this, no one will think less of you.” Rossi rests his hand on Hotch’s shoulder.

Hotch shakes his head. “No. I’ll be fine.” At Rossi’s unconvinced expression, Hotch gives him a sad smile. “They need to be focused on Sp--on Reid, on how he is. I can’t...they don’t need the confusion of what we are. Not tonight.”

Hotch pauses and studies his hands, as if they’re stained with something. Rossi knows from experience what he’s looking at: images of bloodstained hands, blood that can’t be scrubbed from memory.

“I promised Reid I would wait until he was ready.” Hotch nods towards the voices. “To tell them.” His stoic mask falters for a moment. “If I break that promise now…”

_It’s like admitting he’s already gone._

“I understand,” Rossi murmurs. “Just know I’ve got your back.”

Hotch nods. “Thank you.”

Together, they step forward to face the team.

* * *

Reid is in surgery for nearly five hours. The nurses won’t give them any information beyond the trite _he’s still in the operating room_ or _no news is good news._ It’s absolutely no comfort. They all know that with trauma as severe as Reid endured, something could go wrong at any second.

When the doors finally swing open to reveal an exhausted, blood-spattered doctor, the entire room freezes.

“Family of Spencer Reid?” The doctor’s eyes flit over each member of the BAU present; there’s no one else in the room. She blinks in surprise when everyone stands.

Hotch steps forward. Morgan is right beside him, and Hotch is grateful for the strength of his presence. He’s calm, strong, collected; everything that Hotch cannot be right now. The team knows enough about the situation to understand how shaken Hotch is; no one’s judging him for not being in complete control. He’s pretty sure he’s managed to hide the depths of his terror from them, at least up until now.

“I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner, I’m Doctor Reid’s next of kin and medical proxy.” He gestures to the anxious faces behind him. “These are Doctor Reid’s colleagues. Anything you share with me will be shared directly with them.”

The doctor glances over Hotch’s shoulder. For a moment, Hotch is afraid she will argue, but she just gives him a brief nod. 

“I’m Doctor Abeer Hassan, Doctor Reid’s primary surgeon.” She glances down at her chart.

Hotch can’t stand the suspense. His head aches, his wrist is on fire, and his heart is shattered into a million pieces. He _needs_ to know.

“Please.” The word comes out uncharacteristically gentle. “Did he survive the surgery?”

It’s a profiler’s job to notice microexpressions, to judge those little tics that each person has. They have to be able to read and predict a person’s behavior in order to do their job. 

Hotch knows what she’s going to say a split second before she opens her mouth. It’s the slight turn of her lips, the glimmer in her eye that says _job well done,_ the way her shoulders lift in well-deserved pride.

Unfortunately for everyone else, the relief that courses through his body is strong enough to make his vision go blurry. Hotch lurches to the side, grabbing desperately for Morgan. Somewhere behind him, he hears JJ whisper _oh God._

There’s chaos for a moment as Rossi grabs a chair and Morgan orders him to sit. He can hear JJ sniffling, and he curses his own weakness. _They think the worst._

“Agent Hotchner? _Agent Hotchner!”_

Hotch waves off Doctor Hassan’s concern. “I’m alright.”

Hassan glances up at Rossi, but must accept whatever sign he gives her.

“I’m so sorry to worry you, Agent.” Hassan sits down on the chair that Morgan offers her. “Doctor Reid is in recovery as we speak.”

“Wait...he’s alive?” JJ steps up behind Hotch. “He made it?”

Hassan nods. “He’s a fighter. He didn’t give up for one second. When he came in, I wasn’t sure if he was strong enough.” She gives them a weary smile. “But at every step of the way, he matched my efforts.”

“He’s a strong kid,” Rossi murmurs.

“What...um, what was the damage?” Emily asks. 

Hotch is grateful for his team’s support, for their ability to carry this conversation. He hasn’t really recovered from the shock of _he made it._ He can hear what they’re saying, he’s processing it and filing it away, but he can’t respond. Not yet. 

“I was able to drain and repair the damage to Doctor Reid’s chest cavity. His right lung suffered severe bruising in addition to the pneumothorax -- er, collapsed lung.” Hassan waits until Hotch nods his understanding. “His liver and right kidney were damaged, but I was able to stop the hemorrhaging and save both organs. The trauma to Doctor Reid’s left side was less severe, but still required attention.” She takes a deep breath. “There’s always the risk of infection, and he’ll have a good bit of recovery to go through, but his chances are much, much better than they were when he came in. The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will tell us more.”

“Thank you,” Hotch manages. He winces at the raspy sound to his own voice. He sounds wrecked.

“Agent Hotchner, there are a few things you need to know.”

Hotch’s fingers tighten on the arms of his chair. _Shit._ “Yes?”

Hassan gives him a gentle smile. “It’s nothing to be concerned about. Due to the damage to his lungs, I’ve placed Doctor Reid on a ventilator.” Hotch hears the gasps from behind him. Hassan raises her hand in a calming manner. “It’s alright, it’s simply to give his body a chance to rest and heal. He’s in a medically induced coma for the same reason.”

Hotch closes his eyes. _Too much._

“Agent Hotchner, I promise you, this is what’s best for Doctor Reid.” Hassan rests her hand gently on his. “His body has been through an extreme amount of trauma, between the beating he endured and the surgery. The ventilator and coma will allow every bit of his energy to go towards healing. This is what he needs.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Hotch sucks in a shaky breath of air. “How long will he…”

“I would like him on the ventilator for twenty-four to forty-eight hours. If his lungs respond well, then we’ll look at bringing him out of the coma in about three days from now.” She glances up at the other members of the team. “I understand how hard this is for you. But I need you to trust me.”

“We do,” Rossi says. “We’re just a bit over protective of the kid.”

Doctor Hassan laughs. “He’s over thirty and you still call him a kid?”

“He joined our team at twenty-two, so yeah, he’s kinda a kid,” Morgan replies.

Hassan nods. “I suppose that is a bit young for your line of work.” She stands. “Are there any other questions I can answer for you all?”

“Pain medication,” Hotch bites out. He shoves himself to his feet, waving off Rossi’s hovering hand. 

“I saw that in his charts, he is not to be put on narcotics?” When Hotch nods, Hassan continues. “I’ve got him on a bit of a cocktail of non-narcotic pain medication. It’s not nearly as effective as I would prefer, but the pain won’t be unbearable for him.” She pauses. “The coma will help as well, giving the body a chance to adjust to the pain and begin to fix it. Once he’s conscious, I will reevaluate his pain levels and make whatever adjustments are necessary.”

“Thank you,” Hotch murmurs. He's beginning to feel those were the only words he could get out.

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Can we see him?” Emily asks.

Doctor Hassan glances at the clock behind her. “Doctor Reid is in recovery, and by the time he moves to the ICU, it will be quite late. I can’t allow you all back there tonight, I’m sorry.” She turns to Hotch. “I can allow _one_ of you back there, and if it will make you feel safer, that person can remain overnight.”

It’s not the answer that any of them want, but Hotch knows it’s the right choice. There’s nothing that can be done tonight anyhow, Reid will be in a coma and won’t really be aware of any of them. Hotch nods, then turns to face his team. How does he make this choice, though? How does he pick who takes his place, who stays behind to keep an eye on Reid?

“Hotch.” Morgan reaches out to lay his hand on Hotch’s arm. “C’mon, man. That’s not even a choice. It’s gotta be you.”

Hotch stares at Morgan, searching for any sign that he knows. Those moments in the basement are still fuzzy in Hotch’s memory, but he’s certain he wasn’t as stoic as he could have been. He doesn’t care, not right now, not with Spencer lying unconscious and stitched up somewhere in this Godforsaken hospital. He doesn’t care what Morgan knows, but he would like to be prepared.

There’s nothing but sincere concern in Morgan’s eyes. If he suspects, it’s clear to Hotch that Morgan knows now is not the time.

“We all want to see him,” Emily murmurs. “But what the two of you went through…” She shakes her head. 

“You need to be with him,” JJ chimes in. 

Tears sting at the edges of Hotch’s eyes. Someday he has to thank them for this, _really_ thank them. He doubts they know what this means to him, how desperately he needs to lay eyes on Spencer. But the gentle concern they have, the trust that this is where he needs to be, it overwhelms him.

“Thank you.” It’s all he can get out.

“I’ll send a nurse out to get you once he’s settled,” Doctor Hassan says.

Hotch turns to her. “Thank you, Doctor. I know...there’s nothing I can say to tell you how much...Doctor Reid is…” He closes his eyes and sighs. “Thank you for saving his life.”

“Agent Hotchner,” Doctor Hassan murmurs. She’s looking at him like she _knows_ and it makes him entirely too uncomfortable. “You have your job. I have mine. Some days things don’t go our way, but when they do, well, we remember those days. Take care of your man.”

Just like that, she’s gone, leaving the team in the near silence of the waiting room.

“Right.” Hotch spins to face his team. “I want all of you back at the hotel. Get some rest, alright?” He waits for their reluctant nods. “In the morning, Morgan, I want you to wrap everything up with the LEO’s. Can you finish the reports as well?”

Morgan nods. “You know I can.”

“Good. JJ, I need you to get in touch with Strauss. Get us a few days, as long as you can. Tell her I’ll call in once Reid is stable.” He’ll be taking more than a few days for himself, but no one needs to know that right now. “Emily, see if we can extend our stay at the hotel, and then bring Reid’s ready bag over. I’ll let you all know when you’re cleared to see him.” Hotch takes a breath. God, he needs to sit down. “Rossi -- ”

“Will be staying right here.” Rossi shoves his hands in his pockets. “What? Someone needs to look after you.”

“Dave, you heard --”

“Yeah, I heard what they said. Only one person, blah blah blah.” Rossi shrugs. “If one of us doesn’t stay, you won’t eat or sleep.” He glares at Hotch, daring him to argue.

Hotch doesn’t have it in him. Truth be told, he _wants_ someone to stay. He’s tired and he’s in pain, both physically and emotionally. He doesn’t even know where the hell his ready bag is. And if he were to have his choice of who he had to lean on, it would be Rossi. He doesn’t have to pretend in front of Rossi.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Okay, you’ve got me.” He sighs. “Listen, I know today…”

“Shut up,” Emily hisses. Before Hotch can react, she’s wrapped her arms around him in a hug. “You both went through hell. You need to lay eyes on him. You won’t rest until you do.” She pulls back, rubbing one hand up and down his arm. “None of this was your fault, okay?”

“Get some rest, Emily,” he murmurs.

She glares at him, but steps away. Hotch watches as she collects JJ. The two of them wave goodbye, and then shuffle down the hall.

“Hotch.” 

He starts, surprised to find Morgan at his side.

“She’s right, you know. None of this was your fault.”

“Morgan -- ”

“No. You would tell me or Rossi the same if we were in your position. You had no way of knowing he would react like that.”

“We knew who the unsub took, Morgan. I should have seen that.” Hotch rubs his hand across his forehead.

“Yeah, we knew the _unsub_ took pairs. Not _Rozzanatti.”_ Morgan shifts on his feet. “Listen, Hotch. Beating yourself up won’t help Reid, and it won’t help you. Prentiss was right, you both went through hell. Don’t take the responsibility for that, okay?”

When Hotch doesn’t respond, Morgan turns to Rossi.

“Hey, Rossi. Talk some sense into him, would you?”

Rossi glances at Hotch out of the corner of his eyes. “Oh, I will.”

“Good.” Morgan nods. “Get some rest. Please?” He waits for Hotch’s half nod. “Hey, Hotch?” Morgan gives Hotch a gentle shove. “Keep an eye on our pretty boy, okay?”

He slaps Hotch on the shoulder, and then he’s gone, leaving just Hotch and Rossi alone in the hallway. Waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a passage that I am _really excited_ to get out there. I thought it would be in this chapter. But then Hotch decided to pass out and Doctor Hassan wanted to give specifics. *sigh*
> 
> Hopefully that bit of filler wasn't too boring? I have a tendency to write about every little thing that happens, and I struggle with what to cut out and what to leave in. This *felt* important, and I hope it added to the story rather than detracted. Let me know what you think <3


	9. We'd See the Day that Nobody Died

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some more Worried!Hotch and Dad!Rossi. Featuring some Poetic Introspection for flavor.

Shortly after the team leaves, a nurse comes out to inform Hotch and Rossi that it may be a while before they can see Reid. The surgeon wants to keep a close eye on him for a bit before getting him set up in the ICU. Hotch understands, he really does, but part of him chafes at the added delay. The last time he saw Spencer, the man was covered in bruises, blood, and dirt. He was barely conscious and clinging to life by a thread. 

Hotch just wants to see him, to touch his skin, to know that he is warm, alive,  _ safe.  _ Without physical proof, Hotch is left with only his bloodied, broken memories and a too quiet, too pale waiting room.

Waiting is torture.

* * *

Hotch isn’t sure how long he’s been sitting there, staring at the wall, the floor, the clock and only seeing Spencer’s broken body. He lost track of time and reality for a while. Everything snaps back into place with dizzying force when a pair of familiar Italian leather boots step into view.

“Stop that,” Rossi says.

Hotch finds himself face to face with a (very much  _ not _ hospital-grade) cup of coffee and Rossi’s concerned expression. A friendly face is such a relief from his living nightmares that Hotch takes the coffee without even wondering where it came from. It takes him two burning sips of coffee before he finally processes what Rossi said.

“Stop what?”

Rossi raises his eyebrows as he sits next to Hotch. “C’mon kid, I taught you everything you know about this job. You think I can’t tell what’s going on inside your head.”

Hotch sighs. “I hate profilers.”

“We all do.” Rossi lays his hand on Hotch’s knee. “But I mean it. Stop blaming yourself. Stop trying to find something different that you could have done.”

“I just need to see him, Dave.” Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose. His head is starting to ache, and his vision is blurring over. Whether it’s due to the concussion, stress, or lack of sleep, he isn’t sure.

“I know.” Rossi takes a sip of his own coffee. “They’ve moved him to his room. They should let you back soon.”

Hotch jerks his head up. “How do you know that?”

“I have my ways.” Rossi grins mischievously. “You’ll hate me for this one, but I got them to put a cot in his room for you.”

Hotch nearly chokes on his coffee. “You  _ what?” _

“You haven’t slept more than six hours in the last three days. You need to sleep.”

“I can sleep when he’s--”

“No. You can sleep  _ now.” _ Rossi glares at Hotch. “When Reid wakes up, that’s when he’s going to need you. That’s when he’ll need your support. He’s not going to be conscious for at least two days. Get some rest now, Aaron. For both of your sakes.”

Hotch sighs. “I know you’re right. I just...every time I close my eyes, I see him like that.” He shakes his head. There’s more to those images that keep flashing through his mind, but he isn’t sure that he can voice them. 

Rossi simply waits. He’s too good of a profiler to not notice that Hotch is hesitating, but he’s far too good of a friend to press the issue. Hotch’s is grateful for his patience -- more so than he can say.

Since he and Reid became official, Spencer has been his safety net. He’s the one person that Hotch will let see his weaknesses. Spencer is the only one who can hold him when he falls apart. He’s the only one with whom Hotch doesn’t have to  _ pretend.  _

It’s amazing, really. Hotch hasn’t had such a confidant, a friend, a supporter …  _ ever, _ really. Haley was at first, but back then Hotch wasn’t carrying so much. His memories weren’t so clouded with blood and suffering, his tears weren’t so acidic. By the time he really  _ needed _ someone, they’d already started to grow apart.

He needs that support now. He desperately needs to fall apart, to let his walls down, to stop pretending that he’s okay. But his partner, his supporter, his  _ lover _ is unconscious. Barely alive. 

So he’s grateful for Rossi’s presence. The man had been his mentor and his friend long ago, and somehow he’s only grown in that capacity since returning. There’s no way Hotch can let himself be as vulnerable with Rossi as he is with Spencer, but he can let at least some of his walls down. He doesn’t have to be as strong, as sure, as stoic with Rossi.

He takes a deep breath. He needs to get this off his chest, to voice that one horror that won’t leave him alone.

“I keep seeing him...laid out in my home.” He takes another shuddering breath. “Just like when Foyet...when Haley…” He shakes his head. “I keep trying to wake him, to hold him...but he’s already gone.”

Rossi’s hand moves to Hotch’s shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, just gently runs his hand back and forth. He gives Hotch the space he needs without leaving him  _ alone. _

They stay there for a while, as Hotch silently grieves. Rossi sips his coffee and studies the passing nurses. Finally, the worst of the panic and fear seem to settle. Hotch isn’t  _ over it _ in any way; he’s far too exhausted and worried to fully process anything. But he can think again, can taste the dark coffee on his tongue, can feel his hands and feet and  _ body _ again.

Awareness filters back in, and with it comes a burning question.

“How the  _ hell _ did you get them to put a cot in his room?”

Rossi jumps slightly, clearly having been lost in his own head. “What?”

“They don’t put extra beds in patient’s rooms,” Hotch elaborates. “It’s...they don’t do that.”

“I told you, I have my ways.” 

It’s not the answer Hotch wants. “They don’t let visitors sleep in the ICU, Dave.” 

Rossi sighs. “Aaron, you’re the kid’s medical proxy and his emergency contact. You came in here demanding to stay with him, and you have barely moved since. You nearly fainted when the doctor finally came out.” Rossi raises his eyebrows. “Not to mention, hospital staff are pretty decent amateur profilers. It didn’t take a ton of work to convince them that you’re Reid’s partner.” He glares at Hotch, daring him to misunderstand.

Hotch, to his credit, turns a faint shade of red.  _ “You told them?” _

“We’re well into the twenty-first century, Hotch. They knew.”

_ So much for secrecy. _

“Look, Hotch. I know damn well you’re not going to walk away from that kid. So did they. I just worked a little magic.” Rossi shrugs. “Besides, you really should be in your own hospital bed in here. At least this way you won’t collapse out of a chair and hit your head again.”

Hotch just stares at Rossi for a moment. “You know, sometimes I’m not sure whether I’m glad you came back, or if I want to fire you for your impudence.”

Rossi scoffs. “Impudence? Really, I passed that stage somewhere around wife number two.”

* * *

Finally, a nurse comes out and informs them that Reid is settled in his room. Hotch can go back. Rossi gives him a gentle shove and tells him to get some rest. Then he’s gone, and somehow Hotch finds himself in Reid’s room.

The sight of Spencer laying in that hospital bed is like an unholy dichotomy between past and present, beauty and horror, fear and hope. It’s as if Hotch can see two Spencer Reids, lying almost on top of each other -- one healthy and brimming with life, one bruised and beaten with blue-tinged lips and a tube down his throat.

He can see two different ages of Spencer Reid. One is impossibly young and fragile-- dressed in old fashioned sweaters and ill-fitting corduroy pants. His hair is an afterthought, ignored unless someone reminds him to run a comb through it. Hotch can never shake those early images of Ried from his memory, especially when he’s injured or sick. It’s as if all the protective layers Reid built up over time -- all the muscle and tailored suits and cynicism just melt away. All that’s left is a boy who was forced to grow up too fast in order to survive.

That mirage breaks Hotch’s heart because he knows  _ that _ Spencer Reid still exists, buried deep inside. The insecurities never left -- they just became harder to see and more ingrained in the way he expects people to act. The innocent, exuberant joy never really got snuffed out -- Reid just learned how to hide it from scornful eyes. The sweater vests never got tossed out -- Spencer just bought better fitting ones. The miss-matched socks are still there -- but Hotch bought most of them.

Superimposed on top of a twenty-two year old Reid is the man that has learned how to handle a gun. This Reid is full of hard edges -- his jaw has filled out and his shoulders are broader. He’s grown into his intellect, learned how to wield that heavy genius shield with grace and agility. Spencer won’t bow under supposed slights, and he isn’t afraid to stand toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye with some of the most threatening criminals they’ve met. He won’t crumble under a simple physical assault anymore. 

That knowledge cuts into Hotch’s skin, burning as it goes. Spencer is battered, and it took brutal force to break him. 

The bruises and sutures that stand out on Reid’s pale skin tell a story of horror. It’s one that Hotch wishes he could forget, but knows he never will. He can recall precisely what sounds Reid made as Rozzanatti beat each injury into him. He hasn’t forgotten a single one of the curses that he rained down on the man as he beat Reid. Hotch can still feel the cold, clinging damp of that basement. It’s in his bones, and it seems to blur the edges of Reid’s still form.

Then Spencer’s thin chest rises, falls, and rises again. The simple act of respiration --  _ life -- _ gives the beauty of a sunrise after a storm. He’s damaged -- broken and beaten -- but he is  _ alive _ and in all of Hotch’s years with the Bureau, he’s never seen anything more wonderful. The gauze and steri-strips are evidence of healing. The darkening bruises are proof that Reid’s body is knitting itself back together. The soft  _ swish _ of the ventilator explains that Reid can rest now. The steady  _ beep-beep-beep _ of the monitor next to him insists that Spencer’s heart is still beating. 

The sound fills Hotch with fear: fear of the moment Reid stopped breathing in Hotch’s arms; fear of the moment his heart gave out in the ambulance; fear as the paramedics stole Reid from him and carried him into the hospital; the never-ending fear of  _ waiting.  _ Fear is cold, Hotch has found. It’s an empty, barren cold that holds no beauty, no mercy. A frigid November cold, before any snow graces the ground. It’s a fear that can scorch a man’s soul if not tempered with the warmth of hope.

Hotch finds that hope as his fingers skim along Reid’s jaw and come to rest curled around the side of his face. He holds fast to that hope as he laces the fingers of his other hand together with Reid’s. And he pours all of his hope and all of his love into the tender kiss that he leaves on Spencer’s forehead.

“Until you wake again, my love,” he murmurs against Spencer’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We should be close to the end but I have _so many more ideas_ that I keep changing my outline. Send help. Or cookies. Or comments. <3


	10. If Everyone Shared and Swallowed Their Pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Would you like some Emotions tonight? I hope so, because boy-howdy, do I have some Emotions for you!

When Rossi returns the next morning, he finds Hotch slouched in a chair next to Reid’s bed. It’s clear that he’s been up a while, but Rossi notices the slightly rumpled blankets on the cot in the corner and the more casual shirt and slacks Hotch is wearing. He slept, or at least tried to.

Rossi takes a moment to just watch Hotch. It’s not often he’s been able to observe  _ Aaron _ and  _ Spencer. _ They’re always Hotch and Reid at work, and he rarely sees them without the rest of the team around. Save for a few late nights after his own dinner parties, he’s not sure how often he’s seen them with their guard down.

Hotch has his fingers tangled together with Reid’s, and he’s leaning forward onto the arm of Reid’s hospital bed. His eyes are roaming over Reid’s face, seeming to memorize and rememorize each dip and rise. There’s a look of soft awe in Hotch’s eyes, something that’s almost foreign to Hotch. Rossi’s seen a similar look a few times, when Hotch watches Jack sleep. This look is a bit more heated, and far more humble. Hotch is proud of Jack. 

He’s  _ amazed _ by Spencer Reid.

Rossi steps back, making sure to clear his throat loudly before re-entering the room. No matter how vulnerable Hotch was last night, Rossi knows the man won’t react well to having his privacy violated without his knowledge. 

It’s a testament to how exhausted Hotch is that he barely even moves as Rossi walks over to him. He accepts the offered coffee with a grateful smile before nodding to one of the spare chairs.

“Any change?” Rossi asks softly.

Hotch shakes his head. “How’s the team?”

“Carrying out their orders.” He glances at his watch.  _ Seven fifty-five. _ “They’re hoping to straggle over around ten. I told them not to rush. I’m not sure how pleased the ICU nurses will be if they all storm in here too early.”

Hotch cracks half of a grin. “I should check in with the Chief Valenti later.”

“Morgan can handle it.”

“I know.” Hotch shrugs. “I’d like to at least call. Professional courtesy.”

Rossi leans forward to respond, but the sharp  _ buzz  _ of Hotch’s phone interrupts him. Hotch glances at the number on his phone before shifting his gaze to Rossi. For a moment, Rossi thinks Hotch is going to ask him to leave.  _ Who the heck is calling? _ Then Hotch sighs and answers his phone.

“Hotchner.”

The volume is up just enough that Rossi can hear the other half of the conversation. It’s no accident. Hotch is giving him permission to eavesdrop.

_ “Aaron. I got a message that you called.” _

Rossi’s eyes go wide.  _ Is that--- _

Hotch catches Rossi’s stare. He responds with a wry grin:  _ it is. _

_ What the hell? _

“Thank you for returning my call, sir.” Hotch pauses, and Rossi can see his throat working as he tries to calm himself. “It’s Spencer.”

There’s a tense pause from the other end of the line.

_ “Is he safe?”  _ There’s a bite to the Assistant Director’s words that puzzles Rossi.

Hotch, on the other hand, seems to know exactly what’s going through the man’s mind.

“It’s not... _ that.” _ Hotch glances uneasily at Rossi. “It’s...our unsub got to him, sir.”

Just like that, the mood changes.

_ “How bad?” _

Hotch takes a shaky breath and tightens his grip on Reid’s hand. “He’s on a ventilator and in a medically induced coma.” Rossi can hear the sharp gasp from the other end of the phone. “They’re  _ cautiously optimistic, _ but that’s...he was…it’s bad.” Hotch pauses, and Rossi can see him desperately trying not to lose his composure. 

_ “When?” _

“Yesterday afternoon, sir.” Hotch clears his throat. “I was there. The unsub cuffed me. I couldn’t do anything to help him.”

_ “Then you have nothing to feel guilty about.” _ Rossi blinks. Not only is the A.D. on speaking terms with Hotch, he also knows about the man’s massive guilt complex.  _ “I assume you’ll both need time off then.” _

“Yes, sir. I don’t know much.” Hotch sighs. “They’re going to try and take him off the ventilator tomorrow. I hope to know more then.”

_ “Take as much time as you need. I’ll clear it with Strauss.” _

Rossi nearly chokes on his coffee at that. Since when did Hotch get leave cleared from the  _ A.D. _ and not  _ Strauss? _

“Thank you, sir,” Hotch murmurs.

_ “Aaron?” _ He waits for Hotch’s affirmative hum.  _ “You know I have to ask.” _

“They’ve got him on a cocktail of non-narcotics. I asked, and then I double checked.”

Everything suddenly clicks into place for Rossi.

_ “Good. Don’t hesitate to call me if he needs  _ anything _.” _ There’s a soft sigh.  _ “Physical trauma and pain can be particularly triggering, especially as extensive as this sounds. He’ll need you, but don’t fault yourself if it’s not enough. Keep him safe. Any hour, call me.” _

Hotch scrubs a hand across his face. “Thank you, sir.”

_ “Keep me updated. Take care of yourself, and him.” _

Hotch hangs up. He stares at his phone for a long moment before finally turning towards Rossi.

“Sponsor?” Rossi asks quietly.

Hotch grimaces. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

That explains about... _ half _ of that conversation. 

“Okay, but how in the  _ hell _ did he know about you two?”

Hotch grins. “We went out on three dates before we, I guess, became  _ official. _ Wanted to see if we worked like that, more than friends. After our second date, Spencer met with John. He knew right away.” Hotch sobers, turning back to Spencer’s still form. “He told Spence that as long as we didn’t let this --” he pulls up their joined hands “-- interfere with work, then he would make sure that work didn’t interfere with this.” Hotch squeezes Reid’s hand. “He called me, a few weeks later. Said I was good for Spence. Encouraged us to talk about…” 

Rossi nods his understanding. The team doesn’t talk about Reid’s addiction anymore than necessary. Rossi has only heard bits and pieces of the original story, just enough to know to support the kid and not allow EMS to give him narcotic pain medication. Hotch had been the one to fill him in, before instructing him to  _ not _ talk about it. The entire team protects Reid’s past with a fervor that once worried Rossi. 

He understands now.

Hotch clears his throat. “I should go to Strauss but…” He shakes his head. 

“You don’t have the energy to deal with her, I get it.” Rossi chuckles. “Here, I was about to offer to go to bat for you, and then you go over my head.”

“Thanks.” Hotch gives Rossi a tired smile. 

Rossi dips his head. He takes a sip of his coffee, trying to decide when to bring up the other matter. He’d come in here intending to talk to Hotch about two things. Discussing a prolonged leave with Strauss had been one of them. The other matter has far fewer repercussions, especially given that Strauss clearly isn’t an issue. However, it could be a bit more... _ explosive. _

“Hotch?” Rossi begins.

Hotch hums in response. His eyes are focused on Reid’s face as his thumb traces back and forth across Reid’s knuckles. 

“Listen, I know the team won’t say anything until...until he’s healed, but you have to know they’re going to notice.” Rossi takes a sip of his coffee, giving Hotch time to process what he’s saying. “You need to be prepared to explain this, even if you aren’t ready.”

Hotch is silent for so long, Rossi wonders if he even heard what Rossi said. Then he tightens his grip on Reid’s hand, and murmurs something so softly that Rossi barely catches it.

“He’s waiting for me to leave him.”

“What?” Rossi leans forward, confused by the non sequitur. 

Hotch turns to face him with red-rimmed eyes. “Spencer. He’s waiting for me to leave him, like his father did. Like Elle. And Gideon.” Hotch shrugs, his expression one of utter heartbreak. “Hell, Dave, sometimes I’m not sure even I know how many people have hurt him.”

Rossi still has no idea how this connects with telling the team, but clearly it’s something that Hotch needs to talk about. 

“He’s...he’s waiting on you to leave, after how much time?”

“Over a year.” Hotch’s fingers start tracing patterns on Reid’s arm.

Rossi can’t help but wonder what the  _ exact _ amount of time is. Reid would know. He laughs softly.

“What?” Hotch is watching him, eyes curious.

“The kid would know down to the minute,” he murmurs.

Hotch gives him an odd look before turning back to face Reid.

“One year, eight months, two weeks, three days, and…” He glances at his watch. “Fifteen hours. I don’t know the minutes.”

Rossi just gapes at him. The room is silent, save for the whirring machines, until Hotch huffs softly with laughter.

“I thought if I knew the exact time, he might believe that I’m not...that I’m here to stay.” Hotch’s voice is uncharacteristically soft. “It hasn’t.”

Rossi waits. Hotch must have some reason for telling him this, but as with all things emotional, he’s struggling to get it out.

Finally he turns back to Rossi.

“Six months in, I was ready to tell the team.” He shrugs. “We didn’t have to worry about anything from Strauss, so why wait. I was -- _ am -- _ all in. Those first few dates, those were really just me trying to prove to Spence that I was serious. I knew what I wanted.” Hotch sighs. “I’ve known how I felt about him for...a long time. Too long. I really only wanted to make sure that he was happy, that this was something that he wanted. Six months in, he told me…” Hotch swallows. “He told me that he loved me. I was ready to tell everyone the next day.”

Hotch’s free hand clenches into a fist. Rossi can see the tears building in the corner of his eyes.

“He said he wanted to wait.” A tear slips down Hotch’s cheek. Rossi pretends not to see. “Because... _ when _ I leave him -- “ Hotch turns to Rossi with heartbreak in his eyes. “When I leave him, he doesn’t want to have to leave the team.” Hotch sucks in a sharp breath, and if it sounds a lot like a sob, neither of them mention it. “As if they would choose me over him.”

Hotch laughs, but it’s a dark, humorless sound.

“I’ve asked him every month since.” He presses his free hand against his lips; Rossi pretends not to notice the way it’s shaking. “His answer is always the same.  _ I can’t lose you and the team.  _ As if we both know this isn’t going to last.”

Hotch leans forward. His fingers skim across Reid’s forehead, gently brushing back a few strands of hair.

“I don’t know how to convince him,” he murmurs. “I can’t do this without him. I could leave him about as easily as...as I could abandon Jack.” Hotch’s lips quirk into a small smile. “An IQ of 187 and he doesn’t know how much I care.”

Rossi watches Hotch for a moment. Inter-team profiling is...not always encouraged, but sometimes it’s necessary. It surprises Rossi how upset Hotch is. Not about Reid’s injuries, but about how little Reid seems to think that he means to Hotch.

“Have you told him?” Rossi asks gently.

Hotch spins to stare at him so quickly that Rossi is afraid he’ll fall off his chair. There’s danger glittering in his eyes, and Rossi realizes he’s made a mistake.

“Do you honestly think I’ve gone this long without telling him that I  _ care?” _ Hotch growls.

Rossi holds his hands up in surrender. “Not what I meant.”

Hotch is still glaring at him, his body angled as if to protect Reid from Rossi.  _ Interesting. _

“Look, Aaron. The kid has heard  _ I love you _ before. He’s heard  _ I’m proud of you. _ I’m sure he’s heard a thousand  _ I’ll never leave you’s.  _ I don’t doubt that you’ve told him all of that.” Hotch’s posture softens slightly. “But every single person who has said those things to him has left.” Rossi waits until Hotch’s shoulders relax completely. “Have you told him what you’ve told me, these past few hours?”

Hotch’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

“You told me he saved you, after Haley. You told me you’re not sure if you can do this, if you lose him. You basically just told me you would leave the team for him. Have you told him any of that?” 

Rossi tries to keep his tone gentle. He’s not trying to antagonize or accuse Hotch. Emotions...they aren’t Hotch’s strong suit. He’s good at keeping them locked inside, and it’s served him well in his career. But being honest, and telling someone as insecure as Spencer how much he cares? That’s not something Aaron Hotchner can do easily.

Hotch shakes his head.

“Tell him. It doesn’t have to be perfect or poetic or rehearsed. Be honest with him, Aaron. Let him see what I see right now. He needs that from you.”

Hotch’s eyes flicker back to Reid’s face. “I should have...before now. Right?” The uncertainty in his voice makes Rossi’s heart ache. “He’s lying there and he...he doesn’t  _ know.” _

Rossi lays his hand on Hotch’s shoulder. “He knows you love him, Hotch. He just needs to know you won’t leave him.”

Hotch shakes his head. He pulls Reid’s hand up to his lips.

“I can’t. I can’t leave him.” He squeezes his eyes shut, as if to try and stop tears from falling.

It doesn’t work. Within seconds, Hotch’s shoulders are shaking with silent sobs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had those two scenes in my head for...a long time. They're finally free to roam imaginations! Yay!
> 
> For real, y'all. I'm blown away by your comments. Like...so much love. Thank you SO MUCH for your encouragement and kind words. I can't express how much they mean to me.
> 
> I really want to get around to responding, but my communication skills are a bit off right now. Hopefully soon. But until then, know that I squeal with happiness at every comment. <3


	11. Our Only Light in Paradise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took longer than expected. I keep trying to hurry this along, and then I get stuck because _none of them want to cooperate._ So they hold the story hostage until I give in.
> 
> Anyhow, Emily wanted the stage for a bit.

Emily peeks through the glass window into Reid’s room. She doesn’t mean to be sneaky at all -- she just wants to make sure that Hotch is awake and the nurses aren’t in the middle of something. If Hotch is sleeping, there’s no way she’s waking him up. She’ll just drop the bags off as quietly as possible and head back to the waiting room to check in with Rossi.

The last thing Emily expects to see is her boss, Aaron Hotchner, curled up on Reid’s hospital bed. His nose is buried in Reid’s unruly hair and he has one arm thrown over Spencer’s chest. Hotch is shaking, and Emily registers distantly that he’s  _ crying _ . She’s seen him cry a grand total of four times in the years she’s known him. Once when JJ left, once when she died and then woke up to him standing by her hospital bed, and then, well, Haley.

She’s only seen him cry like  _ this _ once _ \-- _ sitting on his own blood-stained carpet and clutching his dead wife to his chest. 

Horror shoots through her as the realization washes over her.

_ He’s dead.  _

Reid is dead.

Their Reid -- Morgan’s  _ Pretty Boy _ and Garcia’s  _ Boy Genius _ \-- he’s  _ gone. _

She’s seen Reid die before, but that didn’t feel as real as this does. Then, it was like watching a horrible movie. Then, a man who was halfway between a devil and an angel had saved Reid. Then, they had hope. 

This? There’s only a single pane of hospital glass separating her from her worst nightmare. And if Hotch has given up -- Hotch, who would give anything to save Reid -- then her friend is really and truly gone.

Emily Prentiss can’t count the number of times that she’s covered up her shock and horror. She’s long since learned how to put on the stoic mask that this job demands of her. But there’s something about how lost Hotch looks that breaks her. She doesn’t realize that she’s dropped the ready bags to the floor until Hotch’s head snaps up. She’s grabbed the bags from the floor and rushed into the room before she has a chance to decipher the surprise in Hotch’s eyes.

Emily tosses the bags onto the nearest chair and slips around the bed to face Hotch. He’s sitting up now, his legs swung off the side of the bed. He’s still clutching Reid’s hand in his, and his body is angled forward as if to protect Reid. It’s that odd posture that finally gets Emily’s attention. She freezes, widening her senses to try and figure out what she’s missed.

Hotch is watching her with an unreadable expression in his face. His eyes are red from crying, but there’s not that blank empty look to them that she remembers from when Haley was murdered. The gentle  _ hiss _ of the ventilator filters in past the static in her ears. Then finally the steady beeping of the heart monitor reaches her brain and she realizes…

_ Not dead. _

Relief makes her weak, and she grabs at the foot of the bed.

“Oh my God, Hotch. I thought he  _ died,”  _ she gasps. 

His face changes, that strange expression melting into concern. “No, I’m so sorry.” He glances back down to Reid, away from her. “No, I just...I needed to be close to him.”

_ Wait. _

Emily narrows her eyes.  _ What was he doing…  _ If Reid wasn’t...why was Hotch on the hospital bed with him as if they were…

_ Oh. _

Emily catches sight of Hotch’s hand, of the way his thumb keeps running back and forth across Reid’s knuckles. It takes less than twenty seconds to profile the rest of Hotch’s body language, the defensive way he holds his shoulders when he knows someone will question his decisions. The way his lips pull together and down as he stares at Reid -- the common tell they all recognize that means  _ I care, but I can’t show it. _

_ Oh wow.  _ She really misjudged this.

“One year and eight months,” Hotch murmurs. He’s not looking at her, his eyes are still fixed on Reid’s face.

“Excuse me?” It’s not the most brilliant thing she’s ever said, but then again, she thought one of her best friends just  _ died. _

“We’ve been together for one year and eight months.” He finally turns back to face her. She nearly recoils from the uncharacteristic  _ fear _ that’s in his eyes.

“Oh.” She blinks. She’s not quite sure what he’s expecting from her, why he looks ready for a fight. 

“This,” he nods at the space between them, and she assumes he means  _ you finding out. _ “Was supposed to happen on our terms. When we were ready.” He turns back to Reid, and Emily watches as part of his facade shatters. “I can’t -- ” His voice cracks. He pauses to clear his throat. “I can’t keep up appearances right now.”

He pauses again, as if waiting for her to say something.

_ What the hell is she supposed to say? _

She almost lost one of her best friends, and now she finds out he’s been dating their boss for over a year? She’s not upset. Just...overwhelmed. It’s a lot.

“Rossi knows.” Hotch’s voice breaks the silence. There’s a hard edge to it that makes Emily curse her reticence. “I will let the others know on my own time.” He glances up to her, and he’s all SSA Hotchner again. “This goes no farther than the team, and I would ask that you all respect our privacy right now.” He swallows, his mask faltering for a moment. “I would prefer to have any questions discussed once Spencer is able to participate.”

_ Spencer. Okay then. _

Emily knows she needs to give him something. She can sense the anxiety in his words. He’ll defend Reid, defend their decisions, fight for the two of them. He won’t back down, not if he thinks this is right. But there’s something almost fragile in his posture. He wants her to understand, wants her to accept, wants this to not be yet another battle he has to face.

Her heart breaks for him, for the way his knuckles are turning white where he grips Reid’s hand, for the pain that’s swimming in his eyes. He’s been through so much already, and the last fifteen hours had to have been  _ hell. _

God, she can’t even imagine it. Just thinking about how Hotch -- _boss_ _Hotch_ \-- had to have felt watching as Ried -- _Agent Doctor Reid --_ got beaten to death was enough to make her nauseous. But _lovers?_ Emily rubs her hand across her mouth, trying to keep her breakfast where it belongs.

“Hotch,” she whispers. He flinches a bit when she reaches for his hand. “I’m so sorry. This...you shouldn’t have to do this, not like this.”

No one on the team even knew Hotch was...well, not straight. Reid, they’d guessed, but not Hotch. She aches for him, having the option of when, where, and how to come out taken away so cruelly.

He squeezes her fingers gently. “We wanted to tell you all, eventually.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “No apologies. You said we could talk later, when he can lecture us all.” She’s glad to see Hotch’s lips twitch in amusement. “I’m not...look, I just have one question that I need you to answer for me. Just one, and then I promise I won’t ask anything.” 

He stares at her warily, but doesn’t stop her.

“Are you two happy together?”

He blinks, clearly not expecting that. Emily watches as his hand tightens on Spencer’s and his eyes lock onto Reid’s face. Hotch’s expression softens, and she spots… is that  _ adoration  _ in Hotch’s eyes?

“Yes,” he answers simply. She knows he’s not lying.

“Then that’s all I need to know,” Emily says. 

Hotch’s head snaps around. He stares at her for a long moment, searching her face. She smiles, lets her shoulders fall back and her posture relax. She’s no threat to them. Given a little bit of time to process, she’ll go to bat with Strauss for them if necessary. It’s just a  _ bit much _ at the moment.

It’s moments like these that make Emily grateful for their team’s ability to communicate without words. Hotch is strung out, exhausted, and worried. He’s even less capable of talking than he usually is. And she...she still hasn’t looked at Spencer, still hasn’t processed where she is and what it means for her friend. She can’t give Hotch any simple answers or eloquent speeches. She just has acceptance and patience to offer.

It’s clearly enough for him. 

Hotch’s face relaxes into a small, honest smile. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

She reaches across the bed to lay one hand on his shoulder. “We’re family,” she says. “And there’s nothing that can change that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly? The end is nowhere in sight. I want to give Hotch the chance to come out to each member on the team, and I want the team to each have A Moment with Reid, and all that is supposed to happen in the three days before Reid wakes up and _then I can finally start on what I had planned._ I think the sooner I resign myself to this just becoming another one of my monsters, the faster this will get written.
> 
> *sigh*
> 
> Anyhow, that was a wee bit shorter than normal, but if I tried to tack on anymore, idk when I would get this update published. SO. A chapter.
> 
> Let me know what you think and also?? I would LOVE your thoughts on how the team will react to a) Hotch/Reid and b) Reid's condition. You uhhhhh might just inspire me ;-)


	12. Imagine What the World Could Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to another installment of "this was supposed to be three paragraphs and then it became a whole chapter."

Morgan stares at the phone in his hand. He’s been putting this call off all day, but he needs to wrap this up.

He doesn’t want to make this call.

Closing cases, filling out final reports, and taking witness statements after  _ the showdown _ (as Garcia calls it) is never easy. They are always exhausted from days of little sleep, tired of burnt coffee, and usually grimy from too few showers and too many foot chases. By the final days, they all are seeing the ghosts of the murdered around each corner; those ghosts just become more tangible when pens hit paper to recount how it ended. Sitting down and talking with the traumatized last victims usually drains them of whatever emotional reserves they had left. Those conversations are especially difficult when something goes wrong at the end.

Morgan scrubs one hand across his forehead.

This case seems to have tossed all those ghosts and shitty cups of coffee and things gone wrong together into one blender, mixed them up, and garnished the mess with  _ personal involvement. _

He hates this, every bit of it. He hates being thrust into Hotch’s seat while Hotch catches a bad break  _ again. _ He hates not having his little brother next to him, furiously scribbling down his thoughts. He hates that the witness he has to call is  _ Hotch _ and that the incident he has to discuss is  _ Reid dying. _

Morgan swears under his breath and hits  _ send _ .

“Hotchner.” Hotch sounds exhausted and Morgan doubts he even looked at his phone before answering. 

“Hotch, it’s Morgan.” He waits a beat, waits until he hears Hotch hum in response. “How’s Reid?”

Hotch gives a short, humorless laugh. He manages to bite out two words, venom dripping from them: “The same.” There’s a pause, and when Hotch speaks again, he sounds less angry. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t...I didn’t mean that.”

“I know, Hotch.” Morgan does know. Hotch hates being out of control, and there is nothing about the last fifteen hours that offered him even a false sense of control. “It’s alright.”

Hotch sighs. “The doctors are  _ happy with his progress,” _ he parrots. Morgan can sense the bleak shrug from his boss. “His vitals are apparently stable, and his oxygen numbers look good. It’s still...it’s still too soon to tell anything.”

Morgan ignores the way Hotch’s voice cracks at the end. He lets the silence hang between them for a moment, unsure of what to say. He’s not sure there is anything to say, not until Reid wakes up, not until they actually  _ know _ something.

He takes a deep breath instead, deciding to just get to the point. “Listen, I hate to ask this of you today, but--”

“The reports,” Hotch cuts him off. “I know. I knew you would be calling.” There’s a pause. “Listen, Morgan, I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything, Hotch.” He means it. For Hotch, and Reid, right now? He’ll rob a bank if that’s what they need.

“After...later. I need you to tell the team.” Hotch clears his throat. “I know they’ll have questions, and I can’t...I just can’t do this more than once.” His voice breaks again, and Morgan winces.

“I’ll tell them,” Morgan says softly.

“Thank you.” There’s another long pause, and Morgan knows Hotch is trying to get his emotions under control. 

It’s a rare thing to hear Hotch so openly vulnerable. Morgan can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard Hotch’s voice this unsteady. A small, unfamiliar voice deep in Morgan’s mind whispers  _ like when Haley was killed.  _ Morgan isn’t ready to deal with the implications of that, so he ignores the voice. For now.

“Morgan?” Hotch waits for Morgan to reply before continuing. “There’s something else. I talked to Strauss. She’s put the team on stand-down for as long as possible. But when...when there’s a new case, you’ll be acting unit chief again.”

Morgan pulls the phone away from his ear a moment to stare at it.  _ What?! _

“Hotch, what the hell--”

“Morgan.” Hotch’s voice is stern, all emotion suddenly whisked out of hearing range. “I need some time. I can’t...I can’t come back from this, not right away.”

That voice gets a bit louder, but Morgan shoves it back in favor of what makes sense. “Hotch, this isn’t your fault.”

“I know that,” Hotch grinds out. “Logically, I know that. But until I can trust myself to make decisions that put my team in danger and not second-guess myself? I can’t be in the field. You know that. You knew it after...after Haley. I didn’t listen then.” Hotch’s voice is so soft that Morgan almost misses his next words. “I’m listening now.”

Morgan tries to keep his breathing even, tries to ignore the almost blatant parallel that Hotch’s words are drawing. Bits and pieces of the previous night flicker through his memory --- the terror on Hotch’s face, the way he refused to leave Reid’s side, the brokenness in his voice.

Morgan rubs a hand across his eyes again. He’s getting a headache. It would be just like the universe to decide that  _ now _ was a great time for Hotch to develop feelings for Reid. Now, when Reid wouldn’t be in any shape to deal with those feelings for a long time, when the team couldn’t handle anymore upset, when Hotch himself was reeling from the repercussions of his actions. God, wasn’t this life ever easy?

It isn’t that he hadn’t  _ thought _ of the two of them before. JJ and Garcia have some wacky bet going -- Morgan thinks it’s bullshit, but he lets them have their fun. Garcia loves to “ship” Reid with pretty much every available human being that crossed his path. Morgan still remembers that one time Garcia tried to set  _ him _ up on a date with Reid.

No, the thought of Hotch and Reid has crossed Morgan’s mind before. But that’s all. He’s never given it much thought. He can’t. It’s too complicated, and if he’s honest, too terrifying. Morgan loves Reid, as a brother and as a best friend. The kid is a genius, but he’s naive as hell when it comes to people. He responds to praise with the eagerness of a puppy and to attention like a plant craving water. Morgan doesn’t know if he could trust Reid’s judgement if someone he respected as much as Hotch were to show him _that_ _kind_ of affection.

He can’t even consider the possibility now. There’s too much going on, too many things at stake, and too much on Hotch’s plate. He’ll keep an eye on Hotch. The man’s always been honorable before, hopefully he will give Reid time and space before saying anything.

If not, Morgan will make sure Hotch knows what it means to cross one of Morgan’s family.

“Morgan?” Hotch’s voice snaps Morgan out of his trance.

“Sorry, sorry. I was thinking.” Morgan struggles to bring himself back to the present. “I’m...I don’t...Hotch, man, are you sure about this? If we’re on stand-down--”

“I’m sure, Morgan.” There’s something strange in Hotch’s voice, a hardness that makes Morgan feel like Hotch is hiding something. “This is the right choice. I need...I just need time, Morgan.”

Morgan winces. Here he is, second guessing  _ Hotch,  _ who just might be the most honorable man that Morgan has ever met. Regardless of  _ why, _ if Hotch thinks this incident has affected his ability to do the job, Morgan owes it to the man to respect that decision.

“Okay, Hotch. Take the time you need. I’ll step down when you’re ready.”

“Thank you.”

Hotch switches quickly into witness mode, recounting the events of the previous afternoon with a concise clarity that seems almost surgical. There are no superfluous words in his tale, no hyperboles or analogies. Just facts. Still, the words carry a chill with them. The phrases like  _ head struck the concrete wall, rib cracked when hit with steel-toed boot, motionless when prodded _ paint a picture that is far too vivid for Morgan’s liking.

He doesn’t like the way Hotch’s voice starts to waver either. Morgan might have suspicions about  _ why _ Hotch is so upset, but the man is clearly in pain. Besides, even without Morgan’s (mostly) unfounded ideas, he knows that Hotch cares for Reid a great deal. Hell, they all do. Reid is their  _ kid, _ their  _ Boy Genius,  _ their  _ Pretty Boy. _ He’s the baby of the BAU, and Hotch is their leader. He’s in charge, and Morgan knows he takes that responsibility seriously. 

Apparently, that devotion was clear even to Rozzanatti. Morgan listens with amazement as Hotch recounts how Rozzanatti’s demeanour changed when Hotch answered his challenge:  _ beg. _

“I did, Morgan.” Hotch’s voice is audibly shaking now. “I couldn’t...I  _ knew _ what happened to them when their partners...when they demanded instead of begged. And I couldn’t, Morgan. I couldn’t let him do that.” 

It sounds almost as if Hotch is asking for absolution. It puzzles Morgan a bit, that Hotch would think he needs to be forgiven for something that ultimately saved Reid’s life. But he knows, deep down, that Hotch prides himself in his ability to remain unemotional at all times. To stray so far from that role grates on him.

“He was in so much pain, Morgan,” Hotch whispers. “I just...I couldn’t... _ damn it.” _

Morgan lets him breathe, lets him gather himself back together. His suspicion is stronger now -- that seeing Reid being hurt right in front of him may have awoken some buried feelings -- but he can’t bring himself to be upset right now. If that is what saved Reid...well. Morgan can wait to talk to Hotch about it. For now, he’s just grateful that Hotch managed to give Rozzanatti what he wanted.

Hotch is finally able to continue, though there’s not much left. When Rozzanatti saw how much the Unit Chief cared for his subordinate, it broke something in him. He wanted revenge for what had been done to his partner, but he never wanted to hurt someone who actually  _ cared _ about the cop they were partnered with. 

Morgan doesn’t bother to ask exactly what  _ kind _ of caring Hotch thought Rozzanatti saw. Maybe it’s irresponsible of him. Maybe he should press Hotch now, demand that the man stay away from Reid until he’s healed, until he can actually think straight -- or not, as the case may be. Maybe he should ask Hotch exactly how he thinks this will work, as Reid’s superior, or how he intends  _ not pressure his subordinate.  _

He does none of those things. Hotch is in pain, and Morgan trusts him enough to believe that pain is honest. He’s broken over what happened in front of him. Morgan doesn’t want to add to that distress, not right now. Besides. Reid will be surrounded by the rest of the team. There’s no way Hotch will make a move with everyone watching. He has time. He can let Hotch heal a bit, then sit him down. Better yet, maybe he can get Rossi to talk to him. He might listen better if Rossi has that conversation.

Morgan sighs once Hotch has finished.

“Hotch, listen to me. You managed something none of the others did. You saved your partner. You saved Reid.” Hotch huffs, but Morgan keeps going. “I know you blame yourself. But no matter who walked in there yesterday, someone was going to get hurt. He might have just shot JJ or Emily. And if Reid went with me or Rossi, you know the same thing would have happened. If it had been you, me, or Rossi, who knows. Maybe he would have shot both of us.”

“Morgan--”

“No, Hotch. Rozzanatti was the unsub. We had no way of knowing that before walking in on him.” Morgan clears his throat. “You saved Reid, and you got both of you out of there. Nothing else really matters, not right now. If you want to question yourself, fine, but wait until he’s awake. Wait until he can tell you to stop being stupid himself.”

_ That _ gets a soft huff of genuine laughter out of Hotch. 

“I mean it, Hotch. You always tell me not to play this game. Take your own advice for once.”

“Alright, Morgan, alright. You’ve made your point.”

“Good.” Morgan’s lips twist slightly as a thought occurs to him. “I’d hate to have to  _ order _ you to listen to me. Since I am, technically, your boss right now.”

The outraged sputtering from the other end of the line brings the first honest smile to Morgan’s face in over a day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you thought! I'm a little uncertain about this chapter, and the characterizations. I was going for A) That Hotch really doesn't want to have The Conversation with Morgan, because he (rightfully) has reservations about how Morgan will react. He kinda skirts around the truth about what went down at the end because of this. I feel like that's not super in character, but I'm also going with he's stressed as hell right now. B) That Morgan is kind of unsure how he would feel IF Hotch and Reid started a relationship. He definitely would be concerned because of the boss/employee dynamic, but he does *mostly* trust Hotch. He has no idea that they are in fact currently an item.
> 
> I kinda am also willing to just be like CREATIVE LIBERTIES because I have a PLAN for DRAMA for when Morgan "finds out". Mwahahaha.
> 
> Anyhow, thanks for everyone's input on the last chapter. You all definitely pushed me towards this DRAMA PLAN which I had been rolling around in my head. I love the protectiveness that Morgan has for Reid, and I just...am glad y'all seemed to agree with that.
> 
> I'm rambling. Send comments, hugs, or stim toys. :-D
> 
> Oh, also, random semi-spoiler for upcoming chapters. I will be writing Reid as autistic. I recently realized that I need to pursue a diagnosis for autism, and have since jumped fully on board with Autistic!Reid.


	13. From Underneath the Trees, We Watch the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been almost a _month_ since I updated? Oh heck, I'm so sorry. OOPS.
> 
> This chapter fought me, as these "filler" chapters sometimes do. I wanna get to the gooey stuff and drama, but I gotta give these poor kids some time to be stressed.
> 
> Anyhow. Hopefully this chapter was worth the wait :-)

Morgan takes a sip from his coffee, trying not to wince as the hot liquid burns his tongue. He takes another sip, grateful for anything to distract him from what he has to do next. It’s not like this is the first time he’s had to do interviews with a victim’s family. Hell, it’s not even the first time he’s had to do interviews with  _ his own family _ \-- by blood or by choice. This isn’t new to him, but somehow, this is so much worse than any interview he’s ever faced.

Morgan’s eyes skim over the small group that has gathered at the other side of the small cafe: his family, his team. They all look as shattered as he feels, and there is an air of  _ wrongness _ that seems to hover over them. JJ is leaning against Emily, not caring about the way Emily’s arm has draped over her thin shoulders or the way Emily’s fingers trace circles on JJ’s arm. A casual observer would simply see Agents Jareau and Prentiss. Morgan can see the extra wrinkles that JJ didn’t bother to smooth out of her jacket, the older pair of jeans that Emily only wears at the end of the day, the lack of makeup on both women. They are both exhausted, physically and emotionally.

Then there’s Rossi, who hasn't bothered to sit. He’s standing, stiff like a sentinel, staring out into the atrium of the hospital. He drinks his coffee with a calm fluidity, as if he’s simply observing the passing of guests and staff. Any profiler worth their title can see the way his eyes jump from person to person, cataloguing their threat risk. He’s doing the only thing he can right now: watching out for his family. Morgan knows him well enough to spot the worry leaking out from Rossi. It’s in the way he continually turns his phone over and over in his hands, the way he keeps checking for missed messages or calls. He’s the one Hotch will call if … if anything happens.

Then there’s Garcia, Morgan’s baby girl. She got in a few hours ago, towing three gift bags plus her suitcase. Two bags have already been delivered to Hotch and Reid, although she hasn’t visited yet. She insisted, with tears leaking from her uncharacteristically plain eyes, that Morgan tell her everything. She’d rather imagine the worst and then find out she was wrong.  _ It’s easier, that way, _ she murmured when Morgan wrapped her up in his arms and ran his hand over her unstyled hair.

None of this is right...not Rossi’s haunted expression, not JJ’s listless slumped shoulders, not Garcia’s lack of color and sparkles, not Emily’s messy ponytail. The friendly banter is gone, along with that familiar resiliency that carries them through their darkest days. It leaves a hollow feeling in Morgan’s stomach.

Realistically, he knows he shouldn’t be this …  _ lost. _ Reid is alive, and the doctors are optimistic. Hotch escaped with only a mild concussion. They stopped a serial cop killer. There’s so many ways this could be worse, so many scenarios that have played over and over in Morgan’s mind the past few hours. He should be grateful, should be able to at least pretend to smile.

He isn't grateful and there’s no way he can smile right now.

He wants to run his fist through a wall. He wants to take a hammer to rotten wood or a crowbar to stubborn floorboards. He wants to destroy something, the way Rozzanatti tried to destroy Reid. He wants to take his anger out on something,  _ anything. _ And then he wants to rebuild it, to restore it to its former glory, to polish old hardwood floors, to clean glistening glass. 

_ Serial killers aren’t the only ones who have surrogates,  _ Morgan thinks.

He knows that he doesn’t want to restore a house -- he could run through a dozen houses, and still he would have this itch under his skin. He wants to restore his team, his family, his  _ home. _ He wants Hotch to be the one standing here, glowering at all of them in that oddly comforting way that he has. He wants to see Reid perched on the table top, hands fluttering in the air as he rattles off statistics or fingers twisting a tangle over and over and over again. He wants Penelope to be glittering and giggling. He wants JJ to be watching Reid with that soft smile she gets when she thinks of Reid and Henry. He wants to joke with Emily again, easy and teasing. He wants to see that paternal smile Rossi gets as he watches all of them.

He wants to go back. He wants everything to be right again. He wants to not have this stale, hollow fear in the pit of his stomach. This feeling that  _ normal _ is gone, that antiseptic and beeping machines and sorrow is all that’s left.

The coffee burns its way down his throat again, and Morgan straightens his shoulders. He’s stuck with this and he knows from experience that the only way around this mess is  _ through _ it. 

He takes a deep breath. Time to tell the team.

* * *

JJ leans into Emily, taking comfort from the strength and warmth that she radiates. She stares at the condensation dripping down her iced coffee as Morgan’s words lash into her. They feel like thousands of tiny ice pellets, driven into her skin by an arctic wind. She tries not to visualize that basement, nor the men trapped in it. 

She isn’t successful. 

Years of working with the FBI have trained her to hold crime scene photos in her memory, accessible until the end of the case. She’s turned them over in her mind, trying to find clues, trying to find reasons behind the unsub’s actions. It’s a skill that comes in handy most of the time. Not now. Now, she just sees those battered corpses -- broken, cold, dead -- but with the face of her child’s godfather. Now, she just has the sobbing partner’s words running through her mind, but it’s Hotch’s voice instead, cracking like when Haley was shot.

It’s not all in her imagination, either, and that makes it so much worse. 

Rossi had taken her back earlier to see Reid. She had thrown up within seconds of walking into the room. Technically, she’s seen worse -- dismembered and flayed bodies, sadistic torture marks, eyeless corpses. She should be able to handle this. But these bruises are on Spence’s gentle face. These tubes and wires are attached to Reid’s too-thin body. The gauze and cuts and bits of dried blood -- it’s the worst she’s seen on someone she knows, someone she works with, someone she loves.

It was hard watching Reid being tortured, back in Georgia all those years ago. Since then they’ve only grown closer. Reid has cried in her arms and she in his, he’s watched Henry too many times to count, he’s counseled Will when their marriage was struggling. He’s so much more a part of her life now. Seeing him like that, hearing Morgan recount what happened … it breaks her.

She lets the tears fall, knowing none of them will judge her.

She wishes there were some way she could protect him, save him, heal him. She knows she can’t. 

So she cries instead.

* * *

Emily has always been good at compartmentalizing; she had to be, with the work she has done for Interpol and the years she spent with Doyle. Over the years, she’s struggled to learn how to unbox the emotions that she stores away, how to process the memories that haunt her. She knows she has to break them down, let them out, because otherwise, that trapped poison will kill her just as surely as a bullet from a gun. She’s gotten better at it-- she’s stronger and more capable of healing from the trauma she sees every day. She’s learned how to store her fears away and wait until the right time to work through them.

Until now.

She had managed to keep  _ this  _ mess boxed up -- her fears of losing Reid, her hatred of the pain he was in -- right up until she had seen the tears in Hotch’s eyes. His confession had shattered the door to the room where she was trying to contain this tragedy, and she couldn’t seem to repair it. Every word that Morgan says smashes another hole in her defenses. She can feel JJ shaking against her, knows that she’s crying. Emily wants to comfort her, wants to tighten her grip on JJ’s shoulders, wants to say  _ something _ to let her know that she’s not alone. 

She can’t. There’s a lump in her throat that keeps blocking her words. It started when Morgan explained how Rozzanatti had slammed Reid into the wall, and it’s only grown since. Tears start slipping down her face when Morgan gets to the part where Rozzanatti tossed an unconscious Reid at Hotch. She can’t tell if Morgan knows about them -- her profiling skills aren’t quite up to par right now. She knows, though. She knows how Hotch feels about Reid, how much this hurt him. She saw his grief just a few hours ago -- the way he was holding onto Reid like a lifeline, the way his normally expressionless mask had crumbled into pure anguish. 

Emily knows, suddenly, why they got away. It all slots into place in her mind -- the last puzzle piece to explain Rozzanatti’s break, the real reason  _ why. _ Rozzanatti lost his partner, in work and in life. That’s why he took revenge, and that’s why he took his own life when he saw in Hotch what Emily also saw. 

Overwhelming terror grips her as she realizes just how close they actually came to losing Reid. If Hotch and Reid weren’t together, if Hotch had remained  _ Unit Chief _ and not  _ lover,  _ if Rozzanatti had missed the way Hotch responded to Reid’s pain … any one of a dozen tiny things could have shifted this meeting to a morgue. Any one of a hundred impossibilities could have left them one team member down. Any one of a thousand  _ technically against the rules _ could have torn this team apart.

Emily thinks of the way Hotch held Reid. She pulls JJ close to her and refuses to let go.

* * *

Rossi stands with his back to the wall, so that he can see both his team and anyone moving near them. It’s a habit born of years of experience, both military and civilian -- _ find the most defensible position and keep it. _ He’s not really sure what he’s trying to protect his team from. It’s doubtful anyone with a grudge would find them here, now, and there’s no way he can save them from what’s already happened. They want to know what Rozzanatti did, and Rossi knows that in a way, they need that information. Imaginations are terrible things, especially ones that have seen the horrors of the world’s worst minds.

He can’t protect them from what Morgan has to say, but he can be there to catch them if they fall. Hotch might be their leader, but Rossi knows he’s fallen somewhere into  _ BAU dad,  _ as he’s heard Garcia call him. He cooks them dinner, coaxes them out for movie nights, pulls them aside for coffee on bad mornings. 

It’s not a role he expected -- or even welcomed -- when he first joined the team. He knows well enough that he was a bit of an ass back then, especially to Reid. He felt threatened by all of them -- their youth, their collective intelligence, their family-like bond. Reid especially drove him nuts. The way the kid was so, well, so much like a  _ kid _ made Rossi question why he was even on the team. The way the rest of them seemed to rally around Reid just added to Rossi’s frustration with the kid. He remembers thinking something along the lines of  _ he’s not some damned puppy. He’s supposedly a trained field agent. Let him act like one for once. _

He doesn’t remember when he finally got his head out of his ass, when he started actually paying attention to the kid and profiling him like he should have done from the start. It all slotted into place so quickly after that -- the way Reid avoided touch and eye contact, the way he always seemed fidgety when stressed, the way he recoiled from loud noises or too bright lights, the way jokes and social cues flew over his head, the way he empathized with everyone but struggled to express it. An autistic field agent wasn’t something he ever would have expected -- not with the way he was raised to understand that word -- but by the time he’d put all the pieces together, Reid had already gotten under his skin and around his prejudices. 

Rossi hadn’t expected Reid’s terrified expression when he asked about it.  _ I’m not autistic, _ he’d muttered before bolting to the conference room. Rossi had gone to Hotch a week later, armed with as much research as he could find, and demanded to know why no one had ever talked to the kid about  _ who he was. _ Hotch was defensive at first, until Rossi got it through his thick skull that he just wanted to help the kid. The answer to  _ why _ was apparently  _ Gideon. _ That made sense, in some weird way.  _ I made it just fine, so why can’t he  _ was probably Gideon’s reasoning. 

Well, Gideon had left, and Rossi was apparently the adopted dad now, so Gideon’s rules flew out the window. Rossi replaced that ridiculous silence with a few fidget toys on Reid’s desk, a soft blanket for the plane, and some gentle encouragement when he noticed Reid stimming. They never really talked about it, other than the very shy, very pointed  _ thanks _ that Reid would murmur from time to time.

Rossi jumps when a hand lands on his arm. He glances down to find Garcia’s teary eyes staring back up at him. He smiles at her softly, curling his fingers around hers and dropping one hand to her shoulder. She leans into him and he lets her pull strength from him.

He keeps Morgan’s voice tuned out, though. He already heard the story from Hotch. He doesn’t need to hear it again, doesn’t need to revisit the images that those harsh words conjured. He can put on a brave face for Garcia and the rest of them, but he can’t think about what Rozzanatti did to Reid. He can’t think about Hotch’s grief. He can’t think about his own fear.

If he gives in, if he thinks about what happened, he knows he’ll break down.

He’ll break down because it’s  _ Hotch -- _ the cocky kid he took under his wing so many years ago. The kid who eventually learned how to weaponize his microexpressions to bully or empathize. The kid who somehow grew into an amazing profiler and father. The kid who Rossi is proud to call his best friend. It’s  _ Hotch, _ and Rossi can’t be objective when it comes to Hotch.

And Reid,-- God,  _ Reid. _ Rossi swallows harshly as his walls crumble just a little. He’s learned to love that kid like his own son, moreso since Hotch started holding his hand in private, bringing him to dinner with Rossi sometimes. He can’t think of Reid -- the kid who is never still and never silent -- lying unmoving on that bed. He can’t think of Reid’s incessant joy turning to pain, of his love for Hotch turning to fear for his life, of his last words being to  _ thank Hotch for loving him. _ He can’t think of any of it.

All he can do, really, is pretend none of this happened, put on a brave face, and make sure his kids are okay. 

That’s what dads do.

* * *

When Morgan finally finishes, silence wraps around them like a shroud. Each of them are lost in their own thoughts; none of them move, none of them speak. There’s nothing they can do or say that can fix this gaping wound, not until Reid is sitting next to them again. They all know the only words that can bring them comfort right now would be accompanied by a lilting, excited voice and long, thin fingers painting pictures in the air.

Until then, this shared grief and fear are all they have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't...even know what happened with Rossi up there. I got distracted thinking about backstory and then I just didn't feel like deleting it. So *shrug* have some Papa Pasta feels with a splash of Autistic!Reid.
> 
> Yes, I did leave Garcia's POV out. I was afraid I'd never finish this chapter, and also I really wanna write her fussing over a conscious Reid. It just feels more Her (read: I identify with Garcia and I don't do sitting down emotions. I only do active let-me-fuss-and-help-you emotions, so I'm going to write her the same. Whoops).
> 
> Sorry for the mild Gideon-bashing. Somewhere along the line I found a story that hc'd Gideon as autistic and I went YES HE IS. But he is also an ass to Reid sometimes.
> 
> As far as my autistic!Reid, I'm writing him from my personal experiences as an undiagnosed 27 y/o autistic adult (as in, was undiagnosed until about 1.5 months ago so very very long time undiagnosed). 
> 
> Okay. Ima go work on the next chapter now...featuring stressed!hotch and maybe, just mayyyybe the reappearance of some lovely hazel eyes I'm sure we all missed. *grins*


	14. When You're Weary, Feeling Small

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotions, ahoy!
> 
> Alas, Reid does not wake up this chapter. Thanks to an excellent suggestion from _oolam2525,_ I opted to give a few members of the team some time to sit in the hospital room with Reid and have Feelings. Lots of Feelings.
> 
> Also, I neglected to mention that the inspiration for the previous chapter was from _godimissthe2000s._ They had the idea for some of the "spicy fear" that popped up. They are also being a _big_ help letting me process through a few things for this story. Sometimes I just need to talk out ideas.
> 
> So, thanks to both of you for the great ideas! Hope y'all enjoy!

It isn’t until late that first day that Morgan finally makes it to Reid’s room. The hospital staff have been adamant about the  _ two visitors only _ rule and no one has been able to pry Hotch away from Reid’s side. The man has been acting like a damned guard dog, and Morgan isn’t sure he likes it. He’s glad, on the one hand, that Reid has someone with him. And he knows Hotch needs this as an agent and a boss -- he needs to watch Reid heal, needs to see that his agent will be alright. But there’s something off in Hotch’s eyes, something that brings all of Morgan’s suspicions racing back to the forefront of his mind. 

Around 6 pm, Rossi walks into the waiting room and announces that he’s taking Hotch back to the hotel for a shower and food that didn’t come from a hospital. The only problem, apparently, is that Hotch is refusing to leave unless someone else stays with Reid. Rossi locks eyes with Morgan as he says this, and Morgan immediately jumps to his feet. Halfway to Reid’s room, Rossi whispers that Hotch requested Morgan.

“He would want to see you,” Hotch murmurs when Morgan walks into the room. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Reid’s motionless body. “I know you’ll … you’ll take care of him.” Hotch’s voice cracks on the words, and both Rossi and Morgan pretend not to notice the tears in his eyes as he finally faces them. 

Hotch lifts his head to meet Morgan’s eyes, and Morgan has to fight not to take a step back. For all the year’s he’s worked with Hotch, he can never quite get over how quickly Hotch can switch from human to  _ unit chief. _ His shoulders are squared, his eyes hard and dark, and his presence formidable. 

“Call me,” he growls. “If they want to do  _ anything, _ if anything at all changes. You call me, understood?”

Morgan bristles at the tone, at the way Hotch towers over him. It’s as if the man doesn’t trust Reid to Morgan’s care. He swallows roughly, biting back the immediate rebellion that flares inside his veins. Hotch is Reid’s medical proxy, so he has every right to request any changes to Reid’s care. He’s Reid’s boss. He’s Reid’s  _ family, _ and Morgan knows better than to question him right now. He just gives Hotch a firm nod, and steps aside to let Rossi pull the man from the room.

He pretends not to notice the way Hotch lingers in the doorway, staring back at Reid with that strange look in his eyes again. 

* * *

Morgan lets his shoulders sag once Rossi and Hotch are gone. He scrubs a hand over his face, trying to focus his breathing. He’s not been alone for nearly twenty-four hours. With Hotch essentially stepping down from his position, Morgan has forced himself to take Hotch’s role -- and not just the paperwork and calling Strauss parts. He’s been the stoic one, holding Penelope as she cries, rubbing circles into JJ’s back as she stares at the floor, talking about nothing with Emily. He’s been the rock that Hotch usually is, the pillar that holds the team together and keeps them from breaking into shattered pieces.

He’s willing to admit, if only to himself, that he has no idea how Hotch does it.

He hasn’t processed anything. He hasn’t allowed himself to think back to that cursed basement, to Hotch’s desperate attempts to revive their fallen teammate, or to the awful sound of ambulance sirens fading into the night. He hasn’t allowed himself to contemplate the fact that his pretty boy, his best friend, his  _ little brother _ is on a fucking ventilator after being essentially beaten to death.

It all comes crashing into him, battering like sheets of hail, as he stands at the foot of Reid’s bed. 

His eyes skim over Reid’s unmoving body, skittering across swatches of white gauze and angry healing-red lacerations and blue-black bruises. He flinches with each reminder of the violence done to his friend, to one of the most gentle people he knows. He’s teased Reid before for his lack of physical prowess and for his unwillingness to fire his gun, but in reality he’s always admired Reid. The kid has a knack for relating to their unsubs, prying information out of reluctant witnesses, and comforting witnesses. He’s awkward but sincere, something that cuts through most people’s defenses like a knife in soft butter.

Yet here the kid is, covered in anger and fear and pain and Morgan hates every bit of it. This isn’t where Reid is supposed to be. He’s supposed to be filling out reports and drinking too much coffee. He’s not supposed to be  _ here. _ He’s supposed to be spouting statistics or some random fact about the town they are in. He’s not supposed to be -- 

Morgan’s eyes land on the breathing tube, and suddenly his knees go weak.

He’s seen bruises on Reid’s pale skin before. It’s not the first time that he has stood a vigil at Reid’s hospital bed. But it’s the first time he’s seen Reid truly  _ silenced. _ There’s no way for any statistics to make their way around that piece of plastic. No rambling lectures that Morgan only half listens to, but fully loves, will pass Reid’s lips now. There is no chance for Morgan to hear Reid’s voice, even if he did wake up.

It wounds Morgan, in a way he barely understands. He can’t stand seeing Reid effectively  _ gagged,  _ unable to use his greatest weapon. Morgan’s chest fills with a dark, swirling rage against the man who did this, who left his friend barely able to breath on his own. Morgan’s fist crashes against a chair as that rage grows, swallowing that damned scientist and his anthrax. It’s those scars that are making it so hard for Reid to breathe, that years-old injury that’s left his body barely able to heal itself. 

Morgan collapses into his chair and allows himself to cry for the first time in twenty-four hours.

* * *

Day two sees Rossi prodding Hotch in the direction of the first-floor Starbucks for a mid-afternoon coffee. They are replaced by a tornado of color, texture, and cheer as Garcia sweeps into the room. She sets her bags on the chairs, and stands for a moment with her hands on her hips. Her eyes skim the room, studiously avoiding the bed and its silent occupant. Her fingers dance a bit in the air as she plots out exactly what bits of the room need brightening the most. After a few minutes, she has a plan.

Plans are comforting. Plans give direction and framework. Plans give her something to do. She hates being inactive, hates not being able to help at all. She always feels useless when her team is away on cases, right up until they toss her something she can  _ work with.  _ Every morning, Garcia wakes with a plan and a routine for the day. Makeup, hair, outfit, shoes -- all part of the elaborate plan that she concocts to help her deal with the icky that she has to wade through every day. It’s no accident that her makeup matches her shoes, or that her hair takes her longer to do than Morgan takes to shower.

It keeps her busy, focused, on task. It’s comforting. She clutches that comforting familiarity of  _ things to do _ to her chest as she finally inches towards the bed. She peeks through her fingers, not certain if she’s willing to fully face the reality of Reid’s condition again.

She had come back, late last night, with Morgan. She had refused to go back there with anyone else. 

Morgan was the only one allowed to see her cry.

She’s a bit more prepared this time -- a bit less shocked at the bruises on her genius’s face, a bit less frightened by the machine that’s breathing for her 187, a bit less enraged by what  _ that man _ had done to her baby.

She’s not much more prepared. Just … just a little. Just enough that she only cries for five minutes, instead of twenty. Just enough that she only has to touch up her mascara, instead of applying concealer to her whole face. Just enough that she can finally straighten up, and put on a real smile -- even if it is a bit small.

At least this time, she has a plan.

“This room is absolutely depressing,” Garcia announces brightly. She tugs a soft blue plush blanket out of her bag and tucks it under Reid’s arms. “I asked Hotch about this, because I know how much you hate these stupid hospital blankets.” She plucks at the offending blanket with disdain, shuddering a bit at the feel of the material. “These are torture blankets, not getting-better blankets.”

Her heels clack against the floor as Garcia returns to her bag. 

“Now, they didn’t have much Doctor Who memorabilia around here -- small town malls are a bit ridiculous -- but I did manage to find a really cool Star Trek figurine set!” She pulls Reid’s tray around, and balances a small box on it. “I would take them out of the box, but knowing how nurses and doctors operate, they’ll probably have them scattered all over the room before you have a chance to look at them.” She darts over to her bag, pulling a few more items out and tripping around the room to set them up. 

“I can help you open them once you wake up. I can’t wait to see your face. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen Spock look this  _ frazzled _ at Kirk and McCoy. I mean, I can’t blame him. Those two are an absolute disaster when they get together. Now, do you think the doctors will mind this?” Garcia cants her head to the side, studying a large framed photo of the team. Reid is on Morgan’s shoulders, laughing hysterically at something that Emily just did. “I hate how impersonal these rooms are and frankly, it would do me good to see some happy memories in here. Hotch too. Reid, that man is just beside himself.”

She stares down at the rumpled cot in the corner for a long moment, trying to ignore the silence. It’s not like her Spencer to be this quiet, and she  _ hates  _ it. Finally, she huffs, and sets to straightening out Hotch’s cot -- as well as adding a softer blanket and a nicer pillow. 

“He’s been sleeping in here, Reid. I know he blames himself for what happened, and he’s not listening to any of us. Not even Rossi, and I thought everyone listened to Rossi. At least he’s sort of sleeping. I hope he won’t mind. I just...well, hospitals aren’t very good at comfort, even though they are supposed to be good at healing.”

Garcia continues to work her way around the room, hanging up bits of color and team photos wherever she can, along with some get-well cards that each of the team signed this morning (they didn’t have a choice, since she withheld coffee until they wrote something thoughtful) and a few balloons. She doesn’t stop chattering once, pointedly avoiding the silence and talking over the steady beeping of the heart monitor. 

Her plan comes to an end eventually, and she’s left standing by Reid’s bed, empty bags clutched in her hands. Tentatively, she reaches out a shaking hand to brush through Reid’s curls.

“You need to get better, my junior g-man,” she whispers. “I can’t be the only genius on this team.” She leans down and lets her lips brush across Reid’s forehead. “You … you wake up tomorrow, okay? You have to.” Garcia leans back, but lets her fingers wander across Reid’s scalp. “You have to,” she repeats softly.

Hotch finds her like that when he returns. 

* * *

By the third day, the entire team looks wrecked. Even though they knew it would be three days before there was even a possibility for Reid to awaken, there was every chance that something would go wrong in those few days. It’s mid afternoon when Hotch stumbles out into the waiting room, pure terror in his eyes. 

Hotch has been waiting for this, counting down the hours until the moment when Doctor Hassan asks him to step out of the room. This is the moment when she will begin to lessen the heavy sedatives that Spencer has been under for three days. The moment they learn if his body has healed enough to let him wake up, to let him come back to Hotch, to end this nightmare.

He isn’t prepared for the blade of fear that slices through him. 

He’s been out of the room a few times -- Rossi has bullied him into trips back to the hotel and a few walks around the hospital’s oddly spacious garden. But he’s been right by Reid’s side every time a doctor steps into the room, every time a nurse checks his vitals, every time they so much as  _ touch _ his Reid. He was even there when they removed the ventilator. 

He can’t be there now, and it’s killing him. 

He’s grateful that he only has to deal with Rossi at the moment. He isn’t really sure where the rest of the team went. At the moment, he doesn’t care at all. He only cares about Spencer.

He paces the length of the waiting room, one hand absently fiddling with Spencer’s favorite tangle. He had stolen it from Spence’s go bag at some point in the last few days, trying to find something to fill the gnawing ache of Reid’s absence. He doesn’t find the dark purple toy nearly as fascinating as Spencer does, but it belongs to Reid, and that brings him some strange measure of comfort.

Time passes; he has no idea how much. It’s been too long, that’s all he can think. He begins to turn over the things that could go wrong, his pace quickening as his heart begins to race. Rossi’s breath changes, and Hotch glances up. The doctor is walking towards him, and suddenly he can’t focus on anything but the look on her face.

Her face -- it doesn’t take his profiling skills to know that  _ something went wrong. _

His knees buckle and he nearly falls. Only Rossi’s strong hands on his arm keep him upright.

Hotch processes only broken phrases:  _ sedation removed … did not wake up … slipped into a coma … brain scans positive …  _ He hears Rossi’s voice -- calm, but with a slight tremor -- and hopes the man catches whatever important information the doctor has to tell them. All he can focus on is the fact that Spencer  _ didn’t wake up.  _ He’s still sleeping, still lost somewhere, his body still desperately trying to cling to life.

The doctor murmurs something about hope, but Hotch isn’t sure he has much hope left. 

The universe stole Haley from him, and it nearly took Jack. His track record with luck is abysmal, and life has never been kind to Spencer. He’s not sure this time will be any different.

He folds into a chair and sobs.

* * *

It’s late on the fourth day, nearing 11 pm. Hotch is asleep on his cot, only passing into oblivion from sheer exhaustion. Rossi promised to wake him if anything changes with Spencer. He’s glad to see Hotch getting rest finally, the man has barely sat down since yesterday’s news. 

Rossi is also grateful for the moment of privacy with Reid. He hasn’t been alone with Spencer since this started, only processing what’s happened in his hotel room shower or the late nights sitting up in the waiting room. He’s had to keep the words he wants to say on the tip of his tongue. But with every passing moment, the fear that Reid might not wake up grows within him.

He eases himself into what he’s come to know as  _ Hotch’s chair  _ and gently takes Reid’s hand. The feel of Spencer’s cold skin  _ hurts _ and Rossi tries not to recoil. 

“Oh, kid,” Rossi breathes. “What the hell are we going to do with you?” His free hand smoothes back Reid’s hair, a gesture meant more to comfort him than to actually fix anything about those brown curls. 

Rossi ponders Reid’s face, taking in the yellowing bruises and slowly healing abrasions. It’s as if all the things he’s been longing to say are suddenly gone, erased from his mind. He’s left with static and a heartbreak that feels achingly familiar.

_ James. _

The name slams into it, and Rossi finds himself talking.

“You know, I always wanted kids.” He pauses, his thumb rubbing small circles across the back of Reid’s hand. “Carolyn did too. We wanted to start a family. Maybe have three or four kids. A whole household of little Rossi’s running around.” Rossi can imagine the look on Reid’s face at that, and he laughs along with the phantom in his mind. “Then James came along. He was perfect, Reid, just perfect. And then he was gone.” So many years later, that memory still stings so badly. Rossi blinks back tears and ignores how hoarse his voice is as he continues. “After that … well, if that’s how it felt to lose a child I’d only known for a few hours … I didn’t want to know how it felt to lose one I’d known for years. One that I had I’d raised and loved and …” Words fail him again, forcing him to pause. “I couldn’t do that, couldn’t go through that heartbreak. I think that’s why you scared me at first, when I came back. I just --”

Rossi freezes as a new thought occurs to him. “God, kid. I don’t think I ever told you how sorry I was for the way I acted when I came back. I am, you know, I really am.” Rossi squeezes Reid’s hand, praying the kid can hear him. “I was an ass to you. You didn’t deserve that.” He sighs. “I was scared of you. You were so young -- hell, you  _ are _ so young. That scared the shit out of me. You looked like an over excited puppy and you quoted my books back at me and you looked at me  _ like that _ and I just … I couldn’t get attached.” He sucks in a deep breath. “I couldn’t let myself get attached to you. This job is too dangerous for that.”

“And now look at me.” Rossi scrubs the back of his hand roughly across his eyes. “I didn’t raise you, Spencer Reid. God, I wish I had, though.” Gently, Rossi runs his fingers across Reid’s forehead. “You deserved better than what your fa-- than what William Reid gave you.” Rossi clenches his fist, trying to rid himself of the memories of William Reid’s smug look. “I’m proud of you, kid. Proud to work with you. Proud to call you a friend.” Rossi leans over and gently kisses Reid’s forehead. “Proud to call you a son, Spencer.”

Rossi inhales sharply and jerks back up. He dashes angrily at a few stray tears before frowning down at Reid. “Now. You need to wake up.” He tries for his  _ talk down an unsub _ voice, but he knows there was a waver in his words that shouldn’t be there. “The last thing I want to do is repeat all of that with someone listening.” He takes a shuddering breath. “So wake up, and make me say it. You know you want to -- you can’t pass up a chance to make me squirm.” 

Reid didn’t move, and Rossi’s shoulders slumped. 

“C’mon, kid. Please wake up,” he whispered.  _ “Please.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *that moment when your long note gets deleted* *sigh*
> 
> Forget what I was gonna say. 
> 
> Lets go with ThANK YOU FOR COMMENTING. They make my day. I try to respond but my social energy meter is a wee bit broken atm, school started and I'm exhausted. Teaching. Is. Tiring. Great, but tiring.
> 
> <3 Love you all!!


	15. Sail on, Silver Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was napping, and as usually happens when I try to fall asleep, I was story-telling in my head.
> 
> This happened. I have many questions, but I kinda like it.
> 
> Aka, here we see what happens when my poetic roots bleed into my story telling.

Spencer's world is white. It is a stark, bright, pulsating whiteness that sears into his mind and makes him cringe. 

He hates white, hates how unforgiving it is, how easily it shows the dirt, how quickly it is soiled by bright red pain and the harsh orange of voices he doesn’t know. He wants the white to go away, he wants the browns back -- the soft chocolate plush and the creamy coffee browns and the soothing dark amber of a good whiskey.

But all he has is white. White -- punctuated by sharp lime green spikes of sound and bleeding red on the edges. White is fear. White is abandonment. White is loneliness. 

He wants to cry. He wants to scream. He wants to thrash and fight and call out for the only name he can remember --  _ Aaron. _ He can’t move. He can’t blink or breathe or open his mouth. He’s entombed in this pristine white shroud and he is afraid. 

* * *

He drifts in the whiteness, edges towards the strange grey fog that hovers just beyond the blinding white. He’s afraid of that fog, almost more than the white. It’s other-worldly in a way he doesn’t like, with shimmering gun-metal silver and streaks of angry black.

That fog conjures up images of rough wood floors and a face that changes names. He can hear  _ it’s not your fault _ and  _ choose one _ and  _ confess _ in misty ghost-voices, feels a chill as tendrils reach out to him. He shrinks back as far as he can, hating that he has to choose this painful nothingness over a menacing grey.

He knows he’s not always been afraid of that grey fog. It’s called to him before, comforting in it’s lack of swirling color. But it was softer then, plush almost, saving him from needles and fists and  _ pain. _ Now, it just seems to be chasing him, chasing him right back into the white and the red and the orange.

He hates it.

* * *

He thinks he might go mad, stuck here between the malicious fog and the overwhelming white. He thinks he might give in, give up, let the demons take him.

But then there’s  _ brown. _

It’s a deep, chocolate brown, like coffee with just a bit of creamer. He can taste the hint sweetness, though, and he lets himself sink into it. He wraps himself up in the swirls of sepia and amber and dark, dark brown. He pulls it close to him, hiding from the white and the fog. He loves the brown, loves the cadence of the voice, loves the few words he can hear.

_ Please come back. I need you. I love you. You are my everything. Spencer, baby, please. _

He thinks he can make out the face in his mind -- dark eyes, dark hair, chiseled chin,  _ beautiful. _ He knows the man’s name --  _ Aaron _ \-- and he knows that brown and Aaron and those eyes mean safety and warmth and love. He doesn’t know who Aaron is, his memories are too scrambled, too lost in the white and the red and the orange, but he knows that he needs Aaron. He knows that Aaron keeps him safe.

He lets himself sink into the soft brown and he rests.

* * *

He likes blue. She’s such a pretty shade of blue, like those late September skies, cloudless and deep and clear. He can’t remember her name, but he knows that she’s safe. Not as safe as brown, but much, much better than white and red and orange. 

She sounds so sad, he thinks she’s crying. Her tears streak her words with darker blue. He wonders if she knows how afraid he is, afraid of the fog and afraid of the white. She sounds afraid too. Maybe she can see the fog.

_ Spence, you have to wake up. Henry’s birthday is next month and … Spence, please.  _

He doesn’t know who Henry is, or why his birthday matters, but he can see beautiful lavender when he thinks of that name. He holds onto that lavender the next time the fog comes too close.

* * *

The swirls of purple glitter make him feel like laughing. There are flecks of silver and green and pink in the glittery waterfall that accompanies this woman, and he loves watching them dance in the light. They reflect light in pretty patterns that dance across the walls of wherever he’s trapped. 

She doesn’t sit still, just keeps moving around him. He doesn’t mind. Wherever she goes, she leaves trails of glitter and gold and something warm behind her.

_ This place … it’s just so white. So boring. Kinda scary really. You need some color in here, something to wake up to. And of  _ course _ that’s just my job. I am the  _ queen _ of color and comfort, my junior g-man. _

He doesn’t know how she can see where he is, but he’s so glad to know that he’s not the only one afraid of the white. She doesn’t mention the fog, but that’s okay. He doesn’t see the fog again for a long time after the glitter fades away.

* * *

Dark indigo feels like a long lost friend. The color is so deep, almost black, but the man’s voice doesn’t scare Spencer. It wraps around him, presses him down into something soft. The blue feels like fleece, warm and comforting and protecting. It shields him from the fog, and absorbs the white and the red and the orange. He wonders if this man protects him in his world, too.

_ Kid, I know you can hear me. Wherever you are, don’t stay there too long, okay? You still gotta teach me how to play chess, remember? And I  _ am _ going to take you to a football game, I swear. Got it? _

He has no idea what football is, but he’d be willing to go if this indigo will take him away from the fog.

* * *

He doesn’t expect to take comfort in her when the dark wine-red first appears. But her voice is the texture of soft velvet against his raw skin, and he sinks into it with a sigh. He trusts her, and her colors -- swirled with garnet and swatches of scarlet are soothing -- unlike the angry, bright red of pain.

She sounds lonely, lost, as if she knows what the fog looks like, the fog that seems to creep closer every time their colors fade away.

_ I was like this for a while, you know. Floating in that nothingness. Don’t be scared, Reid. We’re right here waiting for you, okay? Right here to pull you out. We still need to catch that new Korean movie together, remember? _

He thinks he can feel her take his hand, thinks he can feel that soft velvet stroke up his arm, but it’s gone before he can focus and he finds himself surrounded by that fog again.

It’s so close, he can almost touch it.

* * *

When their colors fade, when they leave him alone, he finds himself floating in the white of nothingness and the red of pain and the orange of voices he doesn’t know. The fog is there at the edges all the time, and sometimes he can catch glimpses of himself through it. 

He doesn’t recognize himself.

He’s small, curled in on his own body, bloody arms wrapped around his middle. He can hear someone shouting at him, angry and violent. He can hear Aaron, too, his brown turning a frightened copper color as he screams for someone to  _ stop. _

He doesn’t know what any of it means, and he doesn’t want to know.

* * *

He isn’t sure how time passes here in this land of white and red and orange, but he doesn’t want to be here anymore. He wants out, he wants to see Aaron again, he wants to see in more than these few colors that he’s been granted.

But he shrinks back in fear when the orange flares bright like searing fire.

_ Agent Hotchner, you’ll need to step out for a while. It’s just precautionary, while we bring him out of the coma. _

The brown vanishes, but instead of white, his vision is filled with swirling red.

Pain flares with the reds -- sharp and serrated in his gut, dull and pulsating along his chest, stinging and raw along his skin. Memories explode in overwhelming neon -- memories of bullets and anthrax and his mother and abandonment. Memories of blood in his eyes and burning fish in his lungs. Memories of tears and more pain.

He’s terrified.

And then everything turns black.

* * *

He drifts. 

He can hear the colors calling to him, but he can’t seem to crawl out of the darkness that’s consumed him. He’s lost in darkness, surrounded by muted screams that sound like his own voice. He’s cold, a frosty-window glass kind of cold that bites into his soul. He’s lonely, a ten-year old left with only spidery handwriting on cheap white paper kind of lonely.

He cries, but he doesn’t know if anyone can hear him.

Or if anyone cares.

* * *

It’s a warm, butterscotch yellow that finally slices through the darkness. To his surprise, he can recall both the man’s face and his name.  _ Dave Rossi. _ He can’t quite grasp who Dave is to him, but the man’s voice sounds  _ safe. _

He hasn’t felt  _ safe _ for a while. Not since the explosion of red.

_ I’m proud of you, kid. Proud to work with you, proud to call you a friend, proud to call you a son. _

Funny, he doesn’t remember his father being this warm, calm yellow. He remembers a sickly mint green that felt like sandpaper. This man,  _ Dave Rossi, _ feels like the warmth of late afternoon sun after a summer rain. He could burn you, just like the sun, but Spencer thinks it’s been a long time since he thought that Dave was anything other than comforting. 

He lets the warmth of Dave’s fading sunlight wash over him, lets it chase away some of the darkness, lets it drown out some of his own screams that echo in his ears.

He sleeps.

* * *

He misses Aaron. 

He loves the browns that wrap around him when none of the other colors are there. He loves how the fleecy caramel molds into his aching body, chasing away the slashes of red. He loves the chocolate that strokes down his arms and the walnut that threads through his hair. 

But he misses  _ Aaron. _

He misses the feeling of Aaron’s skin against his, misses the smell of Aaron’s hair after a shower, misses the pressure of Aaron’s body against his late at night.

He’s tired of phantom colors and ghostly memories.

So he crawls towards Aaron’s voice.

_ Spencer, I need you. Please. Come back to me. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually think of myself as having synesthesia, but the ease with which I wrote this makes me wonder if I should reconsider that.
> 
> For those who don't know, synesthesia is a condition where, essentially, your brain links two unrelated senses. The most common is linking colors and sounds, though there are many others. It's can be linked with autism (as I've done here) or it can be separate. I think, per my limited understanding and research, that sound-color synesthesia is usually a specific color to a specific tone. I've noticed, however, that I often link certain sound profiles (like a song) with certain color profiles (like brown and sandy tones). That inspired this idea of Spencer's time in a coma.
> 
> EDIT: I wandered away for a bit to plot the next chapter, and I realized that I'm an emotion/color synthesete. Which might not be like..."official" but honestly screw that. I link emotions and colors _extremely vividly_ to the extend that when I was first learning to recognize my emotions (at age 24), I could only describe them in colors, not words. This persists. I am also strongly emotionally influenced by music, which is why songs conjur colors -- song = emotion = color. Huh. Learning about oneself through fic.
> 
> Anyhow. I hope that wasn't too "out-there" of a chapter. I also hope you enjoyed the relative peace while it lasted. It's about to get a lil bumpy. *evil laughter*


	16. When Evening Falls so Hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I said this was going to be a bumpy ride?
> 
> I thought I was kidding.
> 
> Apparently, I wasn't...

It’s been five days.

Five days since Hotch last said  _ I love you  _ and knew that Spencer heard him. Five days since Hotch last felt Spencer squeeze his hand. Five days since he was able to hold Spencer, comfort him, talk to him,  _ be _ with him. 

Instead, he’s had five days of mechanical beeping. Five days of takeout and overpriced coffee. Five days of nightmares that he can’t get rid of. Five days of pity and sympathy and words that are so kind that they  _ hurt. _ Five days of a deep ache in his bones, a hollow feeling in his heart and a loneliness that threatens to drown him.

It’s been five days and Hotch is barely holding it together anymore. 

* * *

The nurses moved Spencer (and Hotch’s odd little cot-home) to a private room on a step-down wing earlier that morning. Hotch has been trying all day to remind himself that this is a good thing. Reid is no longer in critical condition. He’s stable, his body is healing. There’s just no way of knowing when -- or if -- his body will ever heal enough to let him wake again.

Hotch knows he’s being a little dramatic. Spencer’s brain scans are good, his lungs are improving, the surgery incisions are healing nicely. There’s no chance the doctors will give up on him anytime soon. If he’s honest with himself, that’s not what's really bothering him.

Soon enough, Strauss will call the team away. He won’t mind the lack of  _ hovering,  _ but he will miss Rossi’s calming presence. Somehow, Rossi has managed to be there for Hotch without suffocating him. He’s been a steading hand when Hotch feels the ground starting to roll beneath his feet, and an unexpected splash of positivity when the days start to feel too dark for Hotch to breathe.

Hotch knows, too, that it’s only a matter of time before he has to choose between Jack and Spencer. It’s not a choice he even knows how to make. There was a time when it was clear-cut: Jack came first. But then Spencer became so much more than just another agent. 

Spencer is the missing piece to Hotch’s soul. He fits into a space that Hotch never knew was gaping and raw. Spencer covers and protects Haley’s memory, keeping the best parts of her fresh in Hotch’s mind and massaging away the sting of her death. He sands down Hotch’s rough edges, soothes his aching spirit, and refreshes his tired body. Hotch doesn’t know how to walk away and leave Spencer here, comatose and alone. 

He knows some part of him will shrivel and die if he has to walk out of that hospital without Spencer by his side.

* * *

It’s nearly two in the morning when Hotch finally gives in to his restlessness. He never sleeps well without Spencer beside him, and it’s only gotten worse these past few days. He can barely stay still for longer than ten minutes, the constant need to check on Spencer keeps forcing him upright. Hotch knows he won’t sleep on this damned cot, so he might as well sit with Spencer. 

Gently, Hotch slips into Spence’s hospital bed. He drapes a blanket over the two of them before propping himself up on one elbow to stare down at Reid. Hotch has done this a few times, giving into his need to curl protectively around Spencer’s still form. He won’t let himself fall asleep next to Spencer; he’s too afraid he’ll accidentally jostle his broken ribs or tear open healing stitches. There’s little chance he’ll fall asleep right now, so Hotch feels safe enough to press his body up against Spencer’s.

Hotch’s fingers skim over Spencer’s face, mapping out fading bruises and healing cuts. His thumb lingers on one particularly dark bruise near Spencer’s hairline; he remembers that one. It was the first bruise, from when Reid slammed head first into Rozzanatti’s basement wall. Gingerly, Hotch leans down to press his lips to the damaged skin.

“Come back to me, please,” he whispers into Spencer’s hair. He closes his eyes, resting his forehead on Reid’s and curling his hand around the back of his head. He lets his fingers tangle in brown curls, and just breathes in the faint smell of  _ Spencer _ that lingers beneath antiseptic and  _ hospital.  _

“I need you, Spence. So much.” Hotch sprinkles barely-there kisses across Spencer’s forehead and down his cheeks in between his words. “I don’t tell you that enough. I don’t know how to do this without you … Jack … the team … any of it. I need you, Spencer. Please.” He lets his lips linger a little longer on Reid’s lips before reluctantly pulling back. “You make me better. You make  _ everything _ better. Please, Spencer,  _ please.” _

Hotch kisses his Spencer once more before falling back into the mattress. He shouldn’t be here, but he can’t leave. He needs Reid next to him as much as he needs air right now. He needs to see the gentle rise and fall of Reid’s chest, hear the slightly scratchy sounds of his breathing, feel his pulse beneath the fingers that he curls around Spencer’s too-thin wrist.

He lays there, silently watching and begging Spencer’s body to let him come back.

* * *

Hotch isn’t sure how long he lays there, but he’s pretty certain he dozed off at some point. He wakes to a panicked whimper and wonders what he was dreaming about that scared him. Well, scared him more than this whole mess has. He takes a deep breath, trying to stave off the necessary opening of his eyes, proving that this nightmare is real. His hand tightens around Spencer’s wrist, feeling for that steady beat.

Except it’s not steady anymore.

It’s  _ racing. _

Another whimper rises above the shrill beeping of the heart monitor and Hotch realizes  _ it wasn’t him. _ There’s a weak tug of Spencer’s wrist against Hotch’s hand, and Hotch’s eyes fly open.

* * *

Spencer is tired and lonely and lost. He wants to escape this world of two dimensional colors and half-remembered faces. He wants  _ Aaron. _ So as shades of caramel and gingerbread and pecan syrup wrap around his soul, Spencer takes hold and  _ pulls. _

He pulls with a ferocity that he hasn’t felt in … well, in however long he’s been trapped here. He will claw his way back to Aaron, will scratch his fingers bloody if he has too. He needs Aaron -- not shades of brown but  _ Aaron, _ the living, breathing man he can only barely recall.

It’s slow going at first, as if he’s trailing through molasses. The irony of being trapped here by  _ brown _ isn’t lost on him. He hopes that means he’s making progress.

As he pulls himself forward, he starts passing strange canvases and posters. They look like photographs from his life, stored haphazardly in whatever hell he’s trapped in. They’re leaned up against invisible walls, tossed carelessly along the path he’s traveling.

_ Eidetic memory, _ one reads, and he suddenly remembers that’s who he is.

Genius. FBI. Child Prodigy.  _ Eidetic memory. _

Aaron is on another, and Spencer remembers that look. It’s the one he had seen in flashlight-shadow in a graveyard in Georgia. Spencer shudders and refuses to look at the next few posters. He doesn’t need to focus on those memories.

He pulls himself forward again, spotting another picture of Aaron. He’s smiling this time, holding Jack on his hip and staring directly at Spencer. He wants to rest here, to lose himself in those eyes, but he  _ can’t. _ Aaron -- the real Aaron -- is out there somewhere and Spencer  _ needs him. _

Spencer suddenly realizes that he’s starving. Starving for Aaron, for love, for safety, for comfort. He wants to feel safe again, wants to  _ be _ safe. The colors -- the voices of his friends, he realizes now -- just kept the fog at bay. They didn’t really save him.

He’s still in danger.

The thought slams into him, pushing him over an edge that he didn’t even realize was there.

He’s falling.

He’s falling past more images. They’re disjointed at first -- flashes of a dilapidated house, a surprised expression on a stranger’s face, anger on that same face, a fist lashing out, concrete racing towards him. As his fall accelerates, they start to blend together like a flip book until suddenly, he’s back  _ there. _

Steel-toed boots slam into his ribs. One cracks, and pain stabs through him. Those boots keep slamming into his chest, his shoulder blades, his spine. Pain spikes every time they land on him, crushing blood vessels and leaving bruises and broken skin behind. He cries out, begs the man to stop, but he doesn’t.

There’s a boot on his chest, pressing him into the ground, crushing his chest. He can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe. Then the pressure’s gone and he’s choking on air, coughing and gagging and dry-heaving. He can’t get enough air, not around the pain in his side. Then the boot slams into him again and he feels something else snap. He forgets to breathe then; the pain is too much.

A gun slams into the side of his face without warning, and he can feel the skin on his cheek split open. The butt smashes into the arm that he’s thrown up to defend himself, and he can hear himself cry out as searing pain shoots up his arm. Blood drips down his face, obscuring the gun as it falls again, crashing into an already broken rib.

He screams.

Someone picks him up and slams into a concrete wall. He falls to the floor, biting back a moan. His fingers scrabble against the cool concrete, skin splitting as he tries to crawl away from the man towering over him. He feels the bones in his hand and wrist crack off the concrete as his body jerks from the force of those damned boots. 

Hands wrap around his shoulders, yanking him upright. Someone is yelling at him, but he can’t see the man’s face. Another hand curls around his wrist, and he tries to jerk away. He can hear Aaron calling to him, just beyond the screaming and the chaos.

_ Aaron. He needs Aaron. _

He has to get away first.

He whimpers, and pulls against the hand on his wrist. He can’t break free. He can’t get to Aaron. 

No. No, he has to get to Aaron. He’s come so far. He can’t … he can’t be trapped here. They can’t keep him. He has to get out. He has to get free. He’s still falling, he hasn’t landed. 

He can see orange flames flickering on the edges of his vision, starting to burn away at his memories. Neon green lances across his vision and he cries out. 

_ Please, no! Don’t take me back. Don’t! I need him! I need Aaron. Please! I can’t stay here! Aaron! Aaron, where are you! _

Another set of hands wraps around his shoulders, slamming him into the ground. Red spears of pain slice into his skin as he comes to a halt. He can’t break free. He can’t get out. He has to get out. He has to get to Aaron.

The flames close in, orange and red and white, threatening to consume him. He shrinks back in fear. He can feel tears on his face, cool in stark contrast to the heat that threatens to tear him from Aaron forever.

He screams.

_ Aaron! Please! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *nervous laughter*
> 
> Okay, I really didn't mean to leave that cliffhanger there? At all?
> 
> But I just realized that I really need to go to bed. So....cliffhanger it is!
> 
> (I really am sorry for that one...)
> 
> Anyhow, I sincerely hope to not leave you for too long, but I can make no promises. Life is exhausting right now, and I'm basically working and sleeping. As soon as I can, I promise to resolve this cliffhanger and get started on some Comfort.
> 
> Love you all! Let me know if there are specific moments of comfort that you would like to see <3


	17. I'm Sailing Right Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sincerely sorry for how long it's taken me to get this chapter together. It's been half written for about two weeks, but I didn't want to rush it, so I never got around to finishing it (until now). Life's been a bit not kind to me lately, hence the unexpected delay. Hopefully, though, this is worth the wait :-)

Aaron isn’t sure how his night has gone from hope to horror so fast. Mere seconds ago, he had shot out of bed, his spirits soaring as Spencer’s eyes fluttered. Then a strangled shriek filled the still hospital air and Aaron’s heart broke all over again.

Now, he’s locked in a stalemate with three hovering nurses behind him and an inconsolable Spencer next to him. Aaron tries to drown out the nurses’ frantic words as he works to get Spencer’s attention. The nurses want to sedate Spencer, stick yet another needle in his arm, make one more mark on his skin, and send him back into the land of oblivion. 

Aaron won’t let that happen. He can’t. He needs Spencer, needs to see his eyes again, needs to feel his fingers curl around Aaron’s hand. He can’t let them drug him again, can’t let them force him back into an unnatural haze. 

And he can’t drown out the whimpered pleas that are falling from Spencer’s dry and cracked lips.  _ Aaron, please. Please, help me. Aaron! _ The words burn like salt in the open wounds of Aaron’s soul. Wherever Spencer is, whatever reality that he’s seeing, it terrifies him and he’s reaching out to the only person he’s ever really trusted. 

Aaron can’t let him down. 

He snarls at the nurses again, demanding that they step back, give him room, give him just one more minute. Spencer flinches every time one of them speaks up over the cacophony that is the medical alarms. He shies away from the alarms, curling towards Aaron instinctively. Aaron wants to tell the nurses to turn those damn machines off, but he can’t take his attention away from Spencer that long. Spencer is fighting Aaron’s grip on his shoulders at the same time as he tries to pull towards Aaron’s body heat. Hotch is afraid he’ll tumble out of bed if he lets go for even a second.

Aaron turns back to Spencer, desperation crushing his chest. 

“Spencer, please, open your eyes. Please, Spence.” Aaron bites back a sob as Spencer whimpers, leaning towards Hotch’s voice. “You’re safe, baby, you’re with me, with Aaron.” 

He lowers himself closer to Spencer, and risks moving one of his hands to the side of Spencer’s face. He lets his fingers dance across Spencer’s forehead and cheekbones, following the path he often traces when they are alone. Reid’s movements slow as he registers the tender touch. His face is still etched with fear and pain, though, and he whimpers softly..

“C’mon, Spencer. Open your eyes. Please, Spencer,  _ please.” _ Hotch feels tears splashing onto his hand, watches them land on Reid’s cheeks. 

Spencer stops fighting, though his hands still scrabble against the sheet, and broken cries for help still fall from his lips. Hotch bends closer, until his lips are brushing against Spencer’s ear.

“Cinnamon, please.” He prays it will work, that Spencer can hear him, that the special pet name -- one only Hotch uses, one that only means safety and comfort and trust to Spencer -- will bring him out of whatever nightmare Spencer is trapped in.

It does.

Spencer’s eyes flutter open. They lock onto Hotch’s face immediately. 

_ “Aaron.” _

It’s the first coherent word Hotch has heard Spencer say in days, and he sobs in relief. “Yes, Cinnamon, it’s me.” Hotch strokes his fingers through Spencer’s tangled curls. “You’re safe, I’ve got you.”

Spencer’s eyes flit over Hotch’s shoulder, barely settling on anything. He still looks terrified -- terrified and  _ lost. _

Hotch cups Spencer’s face, running his thumb softly over his cheekbone. “Look at me. That’s it. You’re in the hospital, alright? You’re safe.” Hotch closes his eyes, pouring all of his being into the next words. “I  _ promise _ you, you’re safe.”

Spencer blinks up at him, and for a moment, Hotch is afraid that Reid can’t understand him. Then Spencer lurches upwards, one hand curling desperately into the front of Hotch’s shirt, the other wrapping around his back. He whimpers with pain as the movement jars his injuries, and Hotch can feel Spencer's too-thin body shaking with the strain of trying to hold himself up.

Hotch moves quickly, throwing his own arms around Spencer and pulling him close. Reid tucks his face into Hotch’s neck, relaxing into the strength of Aaron’s grip. One hand stays tangled in Hotch’s shirt, as if Spencer is trying to pull the man even closer to his injured body.

“You’re safe, Spencer,” Hotch whispers. “You’re okay.” Hotch presses a kiss to Spencer’s curls. “You’re okay, thank God, you’re okay.” 

He buries his nose in Spencer’s curls, trying desperately not to cry. His tears will only upset Spencer, and he can’t risk that, not right now. He can’t give Spencer any reason to doubt that he is safe.

He wants to cry, though. He wants to tighten his grip on Spencer, to clutch the man to his chest and never,  _ never _ let go. He wants to wrap his hand around the back of Spencer’s head, nuzzle into his neck, breathe him in. He wants to sit here, wrapped around Spencer, and rock them back and forth until Spencer is calm again. He wants to run his hands over Spencer’s back, feeling the knobs and dips of his spine, feeling his skin under his fingers. He wants to guide Spencer’s hands under his shirt, to feel Spencer’s fingers slide back and forth across his skin in the rhythm that calms Reid’s shattered nerves.

He can do none of that, and he hates it. He hates that there are nurses hovering, hates that they have to poke and prod at Spencer, hates that they have to ask him questions before they can let him rest. He knows they have to, knows it's necessary and good and important. 

He hates it anyhow.

Spencer whimpers, and tugs weakly on Hotch’s shirt. “Tried...I tried, Aaron,” he murmurs. “Tried to...get to you. Couldn’t.  _ Couldn’t.” _ He shudders and keens softly. “Couldn’t get out...trapped. Aaron...Aaron, please...don’t go…”

Hotch turns his head, pressing his lips to Spencer’s curls. “Shhh, my Cinnamon. I’m right here. I won’t leave you.” He smooths his hand across Spencer’s shoulders. “You made it. You’re here now. That’s...Spencer, you did so well.” Aaron can’t stop his voice from cracking on his words, can’t keep the emotion out of them.

Spencer tenses. “Aaron--” The word is little more than a terrified squeak.

Hotch can feel him struggling against his chest, so he loosens his grip and lets Spencer lean back -- just far enough to look into his eyes and no more.

“Rozz--Rozzan...Aaron! Mark...he...we--” Spencer trips over his words, but the terror in his eyes fills in the missing pieces.

“Dead. He’s dead, Spencer.” Hotch offers Spencer a wan smile. “He can’t hurt you anymore. I promise.”

Spencer stares at him for a long moment, before his eyes widen again. “No...you -- he hurt you! Aaron, he hurt you!” Spencer fights against Hotch’s hold, one hand drunkenly trying to touch the small bandage that covers the healing gash along Hotch’s hairline.

Hotch catches the flailing hand and brings it to his lips. He kisses the still-bruised knuckles gently.

“I’m alright, Spencer,” he murmurs. “They patched me up. I’m okay.” He presses Spencer’s hand to the side of his face, nuzzling into his skin. “I promise you, I’m alright.”

Spencer’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “You...you were hurt. He...Aaron…” 

“Look,” Hotch pulls his bandaged wrist into Reid’s view. “See? They took care of me. You…” Aaron pauses, unsure of whether he should reveal to Spencer how long he’s been unconscious. He opts for a vague in-between. “You’ve been out of it for a while. They had time to fix me.”

Spencer’s tense muscles relax a bit, exhaustion beginning to replace the fear in his eyes. That is, until a nurse shifts behind Hotch’s back, bringing herself into Spencer’s view. Reid instantly tenses again. He lets out a high pitch whine of fear as he attempts to hide himself in Hotch’s arms.

Hotch tries to suppress a growl of frustration, but going by the way Spencer shudders, he wasn’t successful. He doesn't want to lash out at the nurses, he knows they’re doing the best that they can. They simply want to check on their patient as soon as possible. Still, Hotch wonders how often they’ve had to deal with victims of abuse or beating. It shouldn’t take years of FBI training to learn a damned bit of compassion.

Hotch runs his hand over Reid’s tangled curls, shushing him gently. After a moment, he turns towards the nurse.

_ “Step back,”  _ he hisses. “He’s been through hell. Let me get him calmed down, then you can look over him.” 

The head nurse opens her mouth to argue, but snaps it shut when Hotch gives her his classic glare. Once he’s satisfied that none of the nurses will move in again, Hotch turns back to Spencer.

He cringes at the way Spencer is shaking in his arms. 

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe, Cinnamon.” 

Reid shakes his head. “Wh-who is that?”

“Just the nurses. You’re in the hospital, Spence.” Hotch nuzzles into the side of Spencer’s neck, placing a few gentle kisses behind his ear. Reid whimpers, but the sound is tinged with relief at the comforting touch rather than pain. “You’ve been...you've been in a coma, love. For five days.” He opts for the truth, hoping Spencer’s science brain will kick in. “They need to look you over, just for a few minutes. Is that okay?”

Reid whimpers again, somehow managing to make himself even smaller as he tucks his head under Hotch’s chin.

“Why?” Spencer whispers.

Hotch squeezes his eyes in frustration. He wants this to be over, wants to be done with this conversation, with the hovering nurses, with this whole ordeal. He wants Spencer at home, in their bed, all to himself. He wants Spencer to smell like nutmeg and books and cinnamon again. He wants the gauze gone, the bruises healed, the shaking limbs stilled. But he has to see this through, has to convince Spencer to let the nurses look him over. That’s the only way that he gets Spencer out of this, the only way he can heal.

_ Dammit. _

Hotch swallows back the urge to smash his fist against the bed. Instead, he peppers Spencer’s neck with featherlight kisses and rubs soothing circles into his back. 

“They need to make sure there’s no lasting damage. You...he...oh,  _ fuck.” _ The expletive comes out as a whisper. Hotch buries his face into Spencer’s hair again, unable to continue. 

Spencer shifts in his arms, and Hotch finds himself staring down at bleary hazel eyes. “I need to let them. Right?” The words are whispered and tinged with the slightest bit of terror.

Hotch nods. “I know...I know you’re afraid. But I’ll be right here, I promise you.”

Spencer’s eyes flit over Hotch’s shoulder. He stares at the nurses for a long moment before glancing back to Hotch.

“Don’t...don’t leave?”

Hotch leans in to press a chaste kiss to Spencer’s lips. “Never.”

Spencer nods slowly. “O-okay. Just…” Hotch feels cold fingers tangle with his as Spencer links their hands together. “Just stay...please.”

Hotch kisses him again and nearly crushes the thin fingers in his grasp. He wishes there were some way to rid Spencer of this perpetual fear that he’ll be abandoned, that Hotch is going to up and leave him. Especially now, as he lies vulnerable and afraid in a hospital bed -- there’s no way Hotch would ever leave him like this. He only wishes that Spencer  _ knew _ that. 

As soon as Hotch leans back, the nurses swarm in. They’re good at what they do, and for that, Hotch is grateful. They’re gentle, slow, and kind to Spencer. Still, Hotch watches them like a hawk, never once letting go of Spencer’s hand. He hates watching them hover and poke at Reid, hates the hesitant way that Reid answers -- words slurred with exhaustion and tinged with distrust. He’s clearly stressed by the presence of strangers and the repetitious noises of the machines monitoring him.

Hotch wants nothing more than to gather his man in his arms, curl his body protectively around Spencer, and drown out everything that makes Spencer cringe. He can’t, not just yet anyhow. So he waits, watching to make sure they pose no threat to Spencer and doing his best to remain in Spencer’s line of sight.

Finally --  _ finally _ \-- they are finished. Doctor Hassaan reports that their preliminary examination shows no lasting damage. They’ll have to do more intensive scans and tests come morning to verify, but for now, she’s confident in letting Reid rest. Hotch is already planning what to send the doctor as a way of thanking her; she can clearly read their stressed body language and is willing to give them space. 

Before the last nurse slips out, Hotch asks for one last favor. The nurse gives him an odd look, but complies regardless. As the steady noise from the machines monitoring Spencer slowly fades into the background, Hotch can feel Spencer relax just that bit more. 

“Thank you,”` Spencer whispers. His voice is scratchy, dry from disuse and still healing from the abuse wrought a few days earlier and the assault of the breathing tube. 

Hotch perches himself on the edge of the bed and runs a hand over Spencer’s hair. “I wish I could get rid of them completely, but you scared us too much for that.”

Spencer’s lips crack into a sliver of a smile. “S-sorry.”

_ “No,” _ Aaron hisses. “Don’t. Don’t apologize.” Hotch bends over Spencer, pressing his lips to Reid’s forehead. “I got you back,” he murmurs against warm skin. “That’s all I need.”

“Aaron?” Spencer arches up into Hotch’s touch. “Will you stay? Just...just until I’m...asleep?” There’s a pleading tone in his voice that reminds Hotch just how little Spencer thinks he’s cared for. 

Hotch can’t stand it, can’t hold back anymore. He shakes his head, tears beginning to spill from his eyes.

“Spencer Reid, if you think that I’m just...goddammit, Cinnamon.” Aaron folds himself down over Spencer and kisses him.. 

The kiss is gentle but desperate -- on both their parts. Hotch is a bit surprised at the neediness in Spencer, at the way he tries to arch up into Hotch’s mouth. There’s something frightened in the way one hand comes up to grip weakly at Hotch’s arms. Aaron wonders, not for the first time, what nightmare Spencer was trapped in before Hotch was able to reach him.

Finally Hotch pulls back, if only far enough to rest his forehead on Spencer’s once again. He can do nothing more than breathe in the same air as Spencer for a few moments. His shoulders are beginning to shake with emotion and fatigue. He’s trying to keep it together, trying to keep from frightening Spencer more.

Hotch jolts when cold fingers brush against his cheek.

“You’re crying,” Spencer whispers. There’s confusion mixing with exhaustion in his brown eyes. “Why?”

Hotch lets out a gasping sob.  _ How can he  _ ask _ that? _

“Spencer…” Hotch curls his fingers around Spencer’s hand, pressing another kiss to chilled skin. “Spencer, I  _ lost _ you.” He takes a breath, but it catches in his throat. “For five days...you were...you were  _ gone. _ ” He tries to bite back another sob, but fails. “I didn’t know...Spencer, I didn’t --” He breaks off, unable to form words anymore.

Hotch abruptly lets go of Spencer’s hand and covers his own eyes. He can’t hold back his tears anymore, and he hates that. Hates being vulnerable, hates showing emotion, even in front of Spencer. They’ve seen each other at their lowest, but to Hotch, every time feels just as raw as the first time. It stings, and he can’t bear to look at Spencer in the eye.

That is, until he hears Spencer’s weak whisper.

“Aaron? Aaron, please…”

He peers through his fingers, nearly recoiling in horror at the tears in Spencer’s own eyes.

“God, Spencer --”

Reid shakes his head, reaching out to latch his fingers on Hotch’s sleeve. He tugs weakly. “Lay with me.”

“Spencer, I…” God, does he want to, but he’s afraid he’ll hurt Spencer in his need to be close to him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Reid shakes his head again, frustration flashing across his face. “No. Please, Aaron.” He swallows, wincing a bit as his throat protests. “I was...trapped. Couldn’t get to you. Please.”

He tugs again at Aaron’s arm, and this time, Aaron goes. He curls himself around Reid, tangling their legs together and wrapping an arm across his chest. Hotch tucks his head into the crook of Spencer’s neck and mouths gently at the skin there. He’s not looking for anything more than closeness, not trying to get a reaction out of Spencer. He just needs to be close, needs an intimacy that he can’t put into words.

Spencer turns his head, bumping noses with Aaron. He doesn’t say anything, but Aaron can see tears slipping from under his eyelids. Hotch inches forward just enough to press a kiss to Reid’s forehead.

“Sleep, Cinnamon. I’ve got you.” He tightens his grip on Reid’s shoulder, smiling softly as long fingers curl around his wrist. 

“I love you, Aaron,” Spencer mumbles, already succumbing to exhaustion.

Hotch kisses him again, murmurs his own  _ I love you _ against Spencer’s skin.

They lay there, bodies intertwined and tears mixing together, until both of them fall into a peaceful, dreamless sleep for the first time in over five days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! I would love to hear from you if you did! 
> 
> I still have great plans for the rest of the comfort, as well as some more Angst as Morgan finds out about these two. I make no promises on the next update...school has been demanding and my mental health has been quite shit as of late. But, I'll be thinking and planning and scheming until the next time I see you all!


	18. When Tears are in Your Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK. So are the boys. Yeet.
> 
> First of all, I'm so excited for the positive response to Spencer's new nickname. I found it while researching "unique affectionate nicknames" and couldn't get it out of my head. I have a lil backstory to it that I'm going to turn into a ficlet one of these days.
> 
> Second of all, here's some fluff, as a treat.
> 
> I was going to end this on a cliffhanger, but I decided to be nice. :-)

The next morning brings Rossi tiptoeing into Reid’s room. He is greeted by the sight of Hotch -- the tough, stern BAU Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner -- curled around Spencer with his nose buried in chestnut curls. The sunlight that filters through the window makes the scene almost pastoral...if it weren’t for the steady hum of medical equipment and the fact that Spencer is still...well, at least he’s alive.

Rossi shakes his head. He can’t dwell on that right now, can’t dwell on losing another son. Reid is strong, and the doctors are hopeful. He needs to focus on Aaron right now, get him awake and get some food into him. He’s not sure the man even ate dinner last night. He hates to pry Aaron from his dreams -- where Spencer is undoubtedly awake -- and fling him back into this slow hell he’s been living in. 

Rossi steps up to the bed, hand reaching out for Hotch’s shoulder. He doesn’t expect the cold fingers that grip his wrist weakly, nor the faint, panicked voice that he’s missed so much.

_ “No! Leave him...don’t! Please!” _

Hotch shoots up before Rossi has a chance to process that  _ Spencer Reid is awake and talking. _ Rossi’s hand flies up in the air as Hotch leans over Reid, breaking Reid’s frail grasp on Rossi. He misses the contact instantly.

“Spencer, it’s okay. I’m right here.” Hotch’s hands are fluttering over Reid’s face, his shoulders, and his chest. Rossi has rarely seen him this flustered. “Cinnamon, look at me. That’s it. There you are.” The smile in Hotch’s voice is warmer than the sunshine on Rossi’s back. “You’re safe, we’re in the hospital.”

Spencer whispers something that Rossi can’t make out, but there’s wisps of fear around the edges of his words. Hotch glances over his shoulder, nodding at Rossi. He turns back to Reid.

“It’s Dave. You’re okay.  _ I’m _ okay. I promise.” Hotch runs his hand over the side of Reid’s head before leaning in and whispering something that Rossi isn’t meant to hear. Finally he pulls back and sits up carefully.

Reid doesn’t let go of Hotch’s hand, but he does glance up at Rossi.

“Hi.” Spencer’s voice is raspy, and Rossi winces. He knows how long the kid has been out, knows how much damage had been done to his throat from the breathing tube and from whatever screaming he had done at the hands of Rozzanatti. “Sorry. I thought…” He trails off, a slight sheepish smile on his chapped lips.

Rossi wasn’t expecting to cry; he thought he’d rid himself of his tears the day before, begging the kid to wake up. He can feel tears slipping down his face anyhow, the same way he can feel his legs go weak. The fact that Reid is  _ awake  _ finally clicks and Rossi drops to his knees next to the bed.

“Oh, mio figlio!” Rossi runs a gentle hand up Spencer’s arm, gripping his shoulder as tightly as he dares. “You came back to us.”

Only the walls bear witness to the reunion, and the way three FBI agents are huddled together crying freely. Only the walls, and a silent nurse who backs out before he can break the tender moment between a makeshift family of father, son, and son-in-law.

* * *

Rossi breaks the news to the rest of the team, and somehow they don’t get thrown out of the hospital when Penelope screams and Morgan punches the wall with joyful enthusiasm. They are less happy when Rossi tells them that no one can go back just yet. He tells them that Spencer is exhausted, barely awake, and having trouble keeping track of where he is due to the medication. It’s only part of the truth.

The truth is that Spencer won’t let go of Hotch. He won’t let Hotch out of his sight, and barely lets him off the bed. He dips in and out of consciousness -- perfectly normal, the doctors say -- and continually wakes up frightened and confused. If Hotch isn’t  _ right there --  _ well, they don’t want a repeat of that particular moment. Spencer nearly ripped his stitches out trying to save Hotch from the ghosts that are trapped in his mind. 

The other bit that Rossi won’t reveal is that Hotch...well, Hotch won’t leave Spencer’s side either. He’s constantly running his hands through Spencer’s curls or dipping to press kisses anywhere he can reach -- Rossi finally left when he got sick of  _ all this mushy stuff. _ Honestly, he thought they deserved some privacy after everything they’ve been through. But he’d never say that to their faces. 

There’s no way either of them can hide what they are to each other right now, and it isn’t really the right time to tell the rest of the team. Not yet, not until Reid can sit up and face Penelope’s squeals and JJ’s hugs and Morgan’s skepticism. So for the time being, the team has to believe that Reid  _ can’t _ see visitors.

Part of Rossi hates lying to his team. Part of him is just glad that Aaron and Spencer can start to heal on their own, without the well-meaning but definitely overbearing input of their friends. Part of him will protect their right to privacy no matter what, even if it comes to physically restraining Derek Morgan.

* * *

The first time Spencer had woken in the night was disastrous. He’d panicked, fought Hotch’s hold, and nearly ripped his stitches. The second and third time had gone about the same, except by then he was fighting  _ for _ Hotch instead of  _ against  _ him. All three times had been preceded by nightmares. By comparison, the aborted fight with Rossi was a calm way to start the day.

It doesn’t last. 

The first time he wakes after Rossi leaves, he’s screaming Hotch’s name.

Hotch is dozing -- well, he  _ was _ dozing -- and he jerks awake at the strangled, panicked  _ Aaron. _

“Spencer!” Hotch is upright in seconds, reflexes kicking in and pulling him back into reality. His hands hover uncertainly over Reid’s shoulders. He doesn’t want to restrain him --  _ that _ didn’t go well earlier -- but he can’t let him threaten his healing body any more than he already has. 

“Spencer, I’m right here.”

Reid isn’t fully awake yet, and seems to not even register Hotch’s words. 

“Aaron! Please, no...don’t.  _ Don’t! No!”  _

The agony in Reid’s voice, snaps Hotch out of his indecision. He leans over Reid, one hand carding through his hair while the other cups his cheek.

“Cinnamon! I’m right here. Open your eyes for me, please. I’m okay. There you are…” 

Reid blinks his eyes open, panic visible in his eyes. Hotch breathes a sigh of relief as those brown eyes focus almost immediately on his face. 

“Aaron?” Reid’s voice is a whisper, and the hopeful lilt to it melts Hotch’s heart.

“I’m right here, Cinnamon.” Hotch’s thumb ghosts over Spencer’s cheekbone. “I’m right here.”

“You’re...okay?” Reid’s eyes flicker over Hotch’s face, his hands, and settle on the gauze still wrapped around Hotch’s wrist. 

“I’m okay.” Aaron gives Spencer a soft smile. “Much more okay-er than you are.”

The unexpected wording works. Reid’s face clears, surprise replacing the fear.

“You’re  _ what?”  _

Hotch laughs, surprising himself at the freedom in his own chest. “Channeling a little bit of Garcia, I guess.” He dips down, pressing his lips to Spencer’s in an almost giddy kiss.

It’s ridiculous, he knows. His lover’s beaten, bruised, barely out of a near-death coma. Spencer has just woken from a panicked nightmare, and here he is, Aaron Hotchner, acting like a school boy.

He doesn’t care. His Spencer is alive, and that’s all that matters. 

If he decides to kiss the rest of the tears away until Spencer dissolves into giggles, well, no one would ever believe them anyhow.

* * *

The second time Spencer wakes up after Rossi leaves, his brain is kind enough to register  _ hospital _ before  _ fear. _ It gives him a solid ten seconds before he starts panicking. Ten seconds is enough.

Ten seconds is enough to breathe in the smell of leather and gun oil and pine trees. Ten seconds is enough to register the feeling of familiar calloused hands massaging his scalp. Ten seconds is enough to listen to the comforting, familiar deep timbre of the voice murmuring to him. Ten seconds is more than enough to pull all of this sensory input together and come up with  _ Aaron. _

He must say Aaron’s name out loud, because the voice stops and the hand stills. Spencer  _ knows _ he whimpers, because when he opens his eyes, it’s to Aaron grinning down at him.

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” Hotch whispers. He bends down to press a chaste kiss to Spencer’s lips, and grins again as Spencer presses up into the touch. “Easy, now.” The hand is back in his hair, and that’s enough to satisfy Spencer for the time being.

“Missed you,” Spencer slurs. He turns his head towards Hotch’s chest, one hand gripping weakly at Hotch’s shirt.

“I haven’t gone anywhere,” Hotch murmurs.

Spencer makes a muffled  _ harrumph _ into Hotch’s chest. After a pause, he turns his head out so that Hotch can hear him. “I was unconscious.”

Hotch’s laugh rumbles in his chest, and Spencer snuggles closer. He missed that laugh, missed Hotch’s smell, the feel of his hands. He was trapped somewhere that only had colors, and he needs all of Aaron, not just the chocolate brown that defines his soul.

Spencer  _ harrumphs _ again, shaking his head slightly. “I couldn’t...I knew you were here. But I couldn’t find you. I couldn’t get out.”

Aaron’s breath hitches and his arms snake around Spencer’s shoulders, pulling him closer. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

Part of Spencer wants to tell him to piss off, that there’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s not his fault Spencer was trapped in some weird rainbow world. Hotch had just as much, if not more, to worry about while Spencer had been out. He can feel it in the tense set of the muscles he rests against, and he can hear it wrapped around those two words. 

Spencer can’t tell Hotch to shush. He knows those words speak of far more than just regret. So instead, he worms his arms as far around Hotch’s chest as he comfortably -- well,  _ mostly _ comfortably -- can and nuzzles into Hotch’s shirt.

“We’re here now,” he whispers.

“We are.” Hotch’s voice is filled with soft awe. “Somehow, we are.”

Aaron buries his face in Reid’s curls, trying to hide his tears.

Spencer notices. But he can’t say anything, as his own tears are staining Hotch’s shirt.

Neither of them cares. They have each other, and that’s all that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did you like? :-)
> 
> Also, I'm super sorry that I'm not responding to comments. I really want to, but I either forget or The Depression steals the motivation (usually the second). I read all of them, multiple times, and honestly sometimes they are what help me get out of bed. I love you all, and I'm sorry I'm so slow at updating. Real Life has demands that apparently I'm supposed to meet. *shrug*
> 
> Until next time, stay safe, y'all!


	19. I Will Dry Them All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another week, another chapter!  
> This one is a bit of a filler, and you'll see where I'm trying to get to by the end. *evil laughter*

Evening comes, taking the sunlight with it but leaving Reid’s paranoia behind. They’ve managed to get him to allow Hotch to use the restroom, but not leave the room. Reid is completely incapable of maintaining their usual work facade.

Of course, Hotch isn’t much better.

“If you keep making moon-eyes at the kid,” Rossi growls, “they won’t even need the lights in here.”

Hotch ignores him, and Rossi finally gives them both an indulgent smile. 

Part of Rossi feels bad for excluding the rest of the team. He knows they miss Reid, knows they need to see him safe and awake and talking again too. They’re frightened, and they have the right to see their friend. But most of him can’t get over the way Hotch looks at Reid, nor the way Reid’s pale face seems to bloom under Hotch’s gaze. The two of them haven’t had an easy time, and maybe he can give them a little solace here and now. 

Morgan will give him hell for it eventually. Rossi can’t bring himself to care enough.

* * *

Spencer is sleeping peacefully for the first time in over an hour. The doctors had been in and out running tests before the end of day change of shift, and the constant activity had upset Reid. Noise, questions, and requirement of answers were stimuli that Spencer struggled with even on good days. Right now, stranded in a hospital while in what Hotch knew to be a high level of pain...Spencer was well beyond overstimulated. Add to that Reid’s constant fear that the doctors would take Hotch away from him, and Spencer had been an absolute mess for most of the last two hours. Hotch hated every minute of it. 

Somehow, he’s managed to finally lull Reid to sleep, reciting poetry to him like his mother used to do, on her good days. He’s not sure if it was the memories, the words, or simply the sound of his voice that finally numbed Spencer’s terror. Whichever it was, Aaron is grateful. 

He’s grateful for the warmth that seeps into his bones from the press of Spencer’s body against his side. It replaces the cold absence he’s felt for days. He’s grateful for the slow rise and fall of Spencer’s chest that replaces the panicked staccato from the past hours. He’s grateful for the way the soft lights from the room play over Spencer’s face, replacing ugly bruises with beautiful shadows.

He can’t tear his eyes away from Spencer’s face. He’s always been fascinated by the strong lines of Spencer’s jaw, how they play off the graceful waves of his hair. He loves the dimple in the middle of Spencer’s chin, loves the way he can make Spencer laugh when he kisses that spot. Aaron smiles softly, thinking of laughter and the way laughter and smiles dance on Spencer’s full lips. God, he wants to kiss those lips again.

“You’re staring,” a soft voice rasps. 

Hotch blinks, tearing his eyes from Spencer’s lips. He finds himself pinned by soft, gold-flecked eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” Hotch whispers back. He lets his fingers ghost over Reid’s face, gently skirting still healing bruises.

Reid blinks at him for a moment. “I may not have seen myself in the mirror,” he pauses to take a steady breath. “But I’m fairly certain I’m a bit of a mess.”

Hotch breaks into a blinding grin around the tears glittering in his eyes. He bends down, giving into the need to kiss Spencer, a bit too passionately than perhaps is hospital appropriate, but Spencer doesn’t seem to mind. Instead of pulling back, Hotch simply bends to the side, burying his face in the crook of Spencer’s neck.

“Aaron,” Reid’s voice is as gentle as the hand that strokes at the base of Hotch’s neck. “Talk to me, please.”

There’s silence for a moment, before Hotch pushes himself up.

“I thought I lost you,” he murmurs. “I thought he killed you.” Aaron pauses, one hand clenching into a fist. “No. He did. Spencer, he  _ killed _ you. And then, they took you away from me.” Hotch’s voice shakes. “And I just...I never got you back. You were gone. Your body was here, but  _ you --  _ you were gone.” He takes a ragged breath. “All I could do was hope that maybe, maybe you could hear me. That maybe you would come back.”

Hotch can feel more tears sliding down his face. He hates this, hates these tears, hates the weakness they represent, hates the memories of his father’s fists and his friend’s jeers that always accompanied his tears. But there’s something about the way Spencer’s looking at him right now, as if he’s finally  _ seeing _ how much Hotch cares, that makes him glad he can still cry.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself, to remind himself what he was trying to say..

“And now...now you’re  _ here. _ I can feel you,” Hotch runs his hand over the spot where Spencer’s fingers are idly tracing patterns on Hotch’s bare chest -- Reid always preferred the feel of skin to any of Hotch’s shirts. “I can see your eyes -- God, those eyes. I missed them. So much. And I can  _ hear _ you.” Hotch’s fingers glide over Spencer's lips. “Spencer, you’re talking to me-- at me-- hell, you’re  _ sassing _ me.”

He breaks into a grin again. “It’s beautiful--  _ you’re _ beautiful. I don’t care about bruises. I don't care about broken bones or scars. I just want  _ you. _ And I have you. You’re beautiful.” 

Spencer’s lips twist, the way they always do when he isn’t sure what to do with Hotch’s praise. It’s just as beautiful to Hotch as the rest of him is.

“You don’t believe me, I know.” Hotch kisses the tip of Spencer’s nose, reveling in the way it scrunches up in amusement. “But it’s...God, Spencer, it’s so true.”

Spencer shakes his head. “Aaron --” 

“Shut up,” Hotch hisses good naturedly. He kisses Spencer again, this time on the lips. “Just let me have this moment. Please.”

Spencer nods, his curls tickling Hotch’s chin. He presses a kiss of his own to the inner corner of Aaron’s mouth. “I love you,” Spencer whispers softly.

“I love you so, so much more.”

* * *

The morning turns into the afternoon, then evening, and before Morgan can really process what’s going on, it’s nearing noon the next day. He’s had enough. He, Derek Morgan, hasn’t seen Spencer Reid, his best friend and his (platonic) Pretty Boy in nearly a week. He’s done everything asked of him, taking over for Hotch, fielding calls from Strauss, pushing his own grief and concern to the back burner as he comforts Penelope and watches JJ fold into Emily’s embrace. And as he watches Rossi with growing distrust. 

The man is hiding something, and Morgan has had enough. He believed that Reid was having nightmares, that he was worried about Hotch, that he needed to make sure Rozzanatti hadn’t killed Hotch also. Morgan has helped Reid through those nightmares before. He knows how vivid they are, how much it takes to keep Reid stable, and that’s all when the man hasn’t just been beaten to death -- and brought back. 

But it’s been twenty-four hours, and while Rossi only has a few tells, Morgan can read each and every one of them in the way he stands with his hands folded behind his back and the way his shoes rub mindless circles in the faded tile floor. 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how to get onto Reid’s hallway without Rossi noticing. Morgan manages it without any of the rest of the team even wondering where he’s gone. He’s determined to check in on his friend, make sure Reid is alright, and figure out what the  _ hell _ Rossi isn’t telling them. 

Part of Morgan is worried that Reid was without oxygen too long. Does he have brain damage, and Rossi just can’t break it to them yet? Did something happen to Hotch -- worsening concussion symptoms or an infection from those damned handcuffs? A small but merciless part reminds Morgan of the growing affection he’s noticed in Hotch. Surely Rossi wouldn’t condone Hotch making a move when Reid is so fragile?

Shouting coming from down the hall breaks Morgan out of his thoughts.

It takes less than a split second for Morgan to recognise Reid’s panicked voice, and less than twenty for him to spin around the corner into Spencer’s room. 

He freezes at the sight in front of him, only taking in fragmented bits of the scene.

Spencer, pale and too thin, weakly fighting off Hotch. 

Hotch towering over Spencer.

Spencer’s terrified shouts of  _ no! Please no! Stop, please! _

Hotch...Hotch trying to shush him, silence him,  _ wrap his arms around--- _

Morgan sees red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwahahahaha.


	20. When Pain Is All Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwahahahaha  
> I'm so sorry.  
> It's short. It's not sweet. But I like it.

Spencer has no idea what’s going on. He is certain he’s woken straight from one nightmare into another. As a matter of fact, he isn’t quite sure he  _ has  _ woken up. The angry shouting and pure absence of the only person who can bring him comfort feel like the epitome of one of his nightmares. The only difference is that before, he was in a dark, damp basement. Before, the pain was sharper, insistent, angry. Before, he couldn’t breathe. Before, he could hear Hotch calling out to him, feel warm hands on broken skin. Now?

Now, he’s in a dimly lit room, the only light filtering through partially closed, sterile blinds. He can’t make out the colors of the walls, they've blended together into some blurry  _ otherness. _ He can’t even make out what the walls are made of -- except that they  _ aren’t _ the cement blocks of Rozzanatti’s basement. He can feel something a bit more comfortable than stone floor underneath his aching bones, but he can’t make out what it is. The question marks from his surroundings add up, clamouring louder and louder until all he can here is a cacophony of  _ wrong, wrong wrong! _ It traps him, pulls him under, and leaves him floundering.

His pain is dulled, an ache that fills his bones and eats them from the inside out. There’s a numb edge to the pain, like someone has tried to take the sensations away from him, but instead sliced at him with an old, dull, serrated knife. He can breathe now, but only manages to suck in pockets of stale, chemical-filled air. It freezes in his lungs, turning them to stone. He chokes on fear and saline and cleaning supplies. He cries out, desperately trying to rid himself of the phantom pain and stinging in his nostrils. Nothing works. No one comes.

Hotch has been ripped from him -- that’s all that he’s certain of, in this strange place of not enough oxygen and too much confusion. Hotch  _ was _ here, trying to wake him. But then someone came, someone loud, someone yelling, and they pulled Hotch away. They yanked his warm, comforting hands away, slammed him against a wall. Spencer heard him cry out, heard pain in his voice, pain and anger and confusion. They hurt Hotch, hurt his Aaron, and Spencer doesn’t understand why. 

He thought he was safe, thought the dreams were dreams and Hotch’s comforting voice was real. But now he has been thrust back into a world full of his own screams and Hotch’s anger and someone, someone,  _ someone _ hurting them.

He has to save Hotch. 

That’s the only thought that goes through Spencer’s mind. He has to save Aaron. From what, who, he doesn’t know. But he has to get out of this damn bed and get to his lover. 

He tries. He really does. But something pulls in his side, something feels like it’s stabbing deep into his chest, and someone wraps their hands around his arms, holding him back. He screams, screams from the pain and the fear and the shock. He’s crying, that much he knows. He can’t save Hotch, and without Hotch, he is nothing. Without Hotch, he is a void, a young boy tied to a flagpole, an FBI agent without a family. 

He screams again, and then there is a prick in his arm. It scares him,  _ I don’t want it, I don’t want it, please no, not again! _

Then there is nothing but darkness. 

And fear. 

* * *

It happens so fast that Aaron can never remember everything clearly later. One moment he’s desperately trying to calm Spencer down from another nightmare -- the night had been full of them -- and the next moment, an arm wraps around his neck, hauling him away from Spencer. 

He lashes out as old ghosts with Foyet’s face and Rozzanatti’s hands claw at him. A strangled scream leaves his lips, as reality and his own nightmares bleed together. He’s not sure who has him, or what they plan to do, but he’ll be  _ damned _ if he lets anyone near his Spencer again.

His fists never reach their target. Instead, a hand grips his arm with bruising force, forcing it behind his back and viciously twisting it. Someone shouts at him -- _ get off him! How dare you!  _ and then a fist smashes into his face. There’s an audible  _ crack,  _ followed by blood flowing down his face.

Aaron staggers back, one hand grasping at his aching nose as the other waves wildly in front of him, trying to fend off the angry attack. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear the stars from his vision. He can hear Spencer shouting --  _ no! Leave him alone! Please! Stop! -- _ and the fear in his voice makes Aaron’s blood boil. He lets out a strangled roar, trying to shove forward to get to Spencer, but a body slams into him, pinning him to the wall. Glass rattles, and he can faintly hear someone outside the room scream. 

“You bastard!” His attacker slams him against the wall again, and Aaron finally registers who’s attacking him.

_ Morgan. _

A distant, separate part of Aaron can’t help but laugh at the irony in the situation. He  _ knew _ he should have told Morgan first, told him earlier, tried anything to keep  _ this _ from happening. But now he’s here, getting his ass handed to him by his own teammate all because of a misunderstanding. Another part is grateful that Morgan cares enough to fight for Spencer’s safety.

“Morgan!” Aaron croaks. “Stand down!” He can barely catch his breath enough to force the words out, but he has to try.

“You!” Morgan ignores him and presses an arm against Aaron’s throat. “How dare you! How  _ dare you! _ He  _ trusted _ you, you utter bastard.  _ I _ trusted you. You  _ knew _ and you still --”

_ “Stop! Please!”  _ It’s Reid this time, screaming for all he’s worth. The pure terror in his voice galvanizes Aaron into action and he shoves against Morgan with all of his might.

Morgan staggers back enough for Aaron to duck to the left and head towards Spencer. 

He doesn’t make it.

A hand wraps around his arm and furiously jerks him back. He crashes into the wall again, this time slamming his head off the cheap wallpaper. He cringes as reds and yellows and silvers burst behind his eyelids. Reid screams again, and Aaron is certain his heart is going to tear in two.

Can’t Morgan hear? Can’t he see what he’s doing to Spencer? The first misunderstanding, Aaron can understand. He can make sense of it, justify Morgan’s over reaction. But this? Spencer has been begging Morgan to stop since the first few seconds. He’s hysterical now. Surely Morgan should at least want to check in on his friend? 

“Derek! Derek --  _ Spencer!”  _ Aaron holds his head, trying to ignore the new pounding behind his eyes. “Please, Spencer…” 

He can’t think straight, not over the sound of Spencer’s screams, the nurses shouting orders, and Morgan’s own angry ranting. He only knows that someone,  _ anyone _ has to get to Spencer. He’s going to hurt himself, God, can’t someone  _ help?! _

“Shut your mouth!” Morgan pulls Aaron away from the wall, only to throw him up across the room and into the opposing window. Somehow, Aaron manages not to smash his head against the glass, but something twists in his arm and he cries out.

Morgan growls at him, charging across the room with anger pouring off of him. For a split second, Aarn feels fear -- not for Spencer, but for his own well being. Morgan’s eyes glitter with anger, and Hotch can tell he wants blood. Aaron is no match for him, not right now, not with his concussion and lack of sleep, and Morgan … Morgan isn’t to be reasoned with right now. 

Hotch doesn’t have much time to be afraid, because in the next moment, there are hands wrapping around his throat, and then he can’t  _ breathe. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry to leave it on another cliffhanger!!! Okay, no i'm not. Actually. Not at all. But, I will try and get the net chapter out as fast as I can. 
> 
> I love you all, and I revel in your comments, for real. They make my day and encourage me to keep going. Hope you all enjoyed this!


	21. When Darkness Comes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little aftermath...

_ Absolute chaos.  _ That’s all Rossi can think as he turns the corner into Reid’s room. There are specks of blood on the floor and on the wall, and more blood coursing down Hotch’s face. Spencer is fighting with a nurse, screaming out Hotch’s name. And Morgan --  _ fuck  _ \-- Morgan is trying to kill Hotch with his bare hands.

Rossi swears, spins around to shout for Emily and more nurses, then runs to Morgan. 

“Morgan! Morgan, stand down.  _ Stand down!” _ Rossi jerks on Morgan’s arms, but he might as well be a child for all the good that it does. “Damn you, Morgan. That’s an  _ order!” _

Morgan may officially outrank him at the moment, but seniority dictates that Rossi’s word is law.

Not that Morgan seems to care.

Whatever Morgan thinks was happening -- and Rossi has a good idea -- it’s completely clouded his mind. Rossi is considering asking the nurses for a sedative for Morgan when Emily finally comes sprinting into the room.

“What the  _ hell? _ Rossi, what’s --”

“Shut up and help me!” Rossi spits at her. He’ll apologize later. Right now, Hotch is wheezing and Reid is trying his best to tear his stitches out. They’re in danger of having three team members in the hospital unless they can get Morgan sorted.

Emily’s presence seems to snap Morgan out of his daze, at least long enough to yank him away from Hotch. As soon as Morgan staggers back, Rossi slides between the two men.

“You alright?” Rossi glances over his shoulder at Hotch. Hotch nods, though Rossi sincerely doubts that he is, in fact, alright. He’ll let it pass, for now.

“Get him out of here,” Hotch spits, glaring at Morgan. He scrubs a hand across his face, barely even flinching when he sees the blood. 

A strangled shout of  _ Aaron! _ causes Hotch’s head to snap around. There’s a wild look in his eyes that worries Rossi. The man has already lost one partner tragically and he nearly lost Spencer less than a week ago. Rossi knows how close Hotch is to losing it, now and in general. This can’t have helped.

“Reid-- I need--”

“Go,” Rossi murmurs. “I’ve got this.” He spins back around, hands up and already pushing at Morgan’s chest as Morgan tries to surge forward. “Out, Derek. Now.” 

Morgan argues with him, fights Emily’s hold, and shouts obscenities at Hotch. It isn’t until an angry nurse steps up and threatens to ban Morgan from the hospital that Derek actually lets himself be wrangled out of the room. 

* * *

“What the  _ hell _ , Morgan?” Emily rounds on Morgan as soon as they’re a few paces down the hall.

“Shut up, Prentiss. You weren’t even  _ there _ . And you!” Morgan spins, jabbing a finger at Rossi’s chest. “You’re covering for them. How the fuck...how could you even think that’s okay? Hotch...dammit man, Hotch was...he was…”

“He was comforting his lover of over a year,” Rossi states calmly. Inside, he’s seething, angry at the way Morgan just assumes Hotch is no better than Buford, angry that the man has let his own trauma bleed over into one of the few innocent and good things in Hotch and Reid’s lives.

Morgan freezes.

“Maybe you should ask questions before you start assuming things,” Emily mutters.

“You  _ knew?” _ Morgan spits.

She nods curtly. “I walked in on Hotch crying over Reid a few days ago. I  _ asked _ instead of attacking.” She shakes her head. “Get yourself together, Derek, before you burn all of your bridges.” She glances at Rossi. “I’m going to check on Hotch. You deal with him.” 

Rossi lays a hand on her arm. “Make sure he sees someone. He’s still recovering from Rozzanatti’s concussion, and Morgan is no Spencer Reid when it comes to fists.”

Emily nods again, and then she’s gone. Rossi turns to face Morgan. The man is still angry, and Rossi knows he won’t calm easily. There’s some part of him that can understand. Morgan’s past has bled into his present, and he’s acting out to protect Reid. His hotheadedness combined with his inability to  _ think _ first in this situation, however, has done them no favors. 

“Derek,” Rossi starts.

Morgan cuts him off.

“No,” he growls. “No, you don’t get to start. What the  _ fuck _ is going on, man? I walk in and I see Hotch trying to force himself on Reid, and you all want to act like  _ I’m _ the bad guy? Like I’m the one who fucked up? Do none of you even care? Or are you just so wrapped up in giving Hotch whatever he wants that you’ll just...let him take...let him... _ fuck, _ Rossi.”

Rossi raises an eyebrow. “Are you done, Derek?”

Morgan growls again; it's a feral noise, straight from his chest. “No, I’m not,  _ David,” _ he sneers. “I’m not nearly done, but since you seem determined to pin the blame on me, go ahead. Try. Try and prove me wrong.”

Rossi forces himself to take a calming breath. “Aaron Hotchner has been in love with Spencer for well over three years. Approximately a year and a half ago, the two of them stopped dancing around each other. They’ve been in a committed relationship for  _ eighteen months,  _ Morgan.” Rossi waves his hands back down the hall. “What you saw? That was a distraught man trying to comfort his lover. What you caused? A hell of a lot of hurt over  _ nothing, _ absolutely nothing. Just baseless assumptions that do a good man an injustice.”

Morgan gapes at him.

Rossi decides to take advantage of the momentary silence. 

“And whatever you think I’ve been helping them ‘hide’? Reid hasn’t let go of Hotch since he woke up. He’s terrified that Mark Rozzanatti is going to step out of his nightmares and murder Hotch.” Rossi shakes his head in disgust. “And you? You just proved him right. Goddamnit, Morgan, why can’t you ever  _ think _ before you go in half cocked?”

Morgan takes a step forward, trying his best to intimidate Rossi. It doesn’t work. 

“You’re trying to tell me that Reid...the hell, Rossi? Hotch is his  _ boss --  _ how the hell do you know he’s not just pressuring Reid? The man’s lonely, we all know it. Why--”

This time, it’s Rossi who growls. “SSA Derek Morgan, I’d advise you to stop right there before you say so much as another word. I will  _ not _ have you lay down such low accusations. You know Aaron Hotchner, Derek. You know him. You’ve trusted him with your life over and over again and  _ now,  _ now when you’re upset and angry and worried about Reid.” Rossi takes a step forward, perhaps more pleased than he should be when Morgan shrinks back. “How do I know? Because I’ve seen him, Derek. I watched him mourn these past few days, I’ve watched him cry over Reid, I’ve seen it in his eyes. He would die for that kid, Morgan. He loves him more than he ever loved Haley, deeper and more honest. You --” Rossi jabs his finger at Morgan, “can stand down, or I can have you thrown out of this hospital.”

Morgan stares at him, mimicking a fish out of water. The anger is still burning in his eyes, barely dimmed. Rossi is about ready to make good on his threat when a gentle hand wraps around his arm.

“That won’t be necessary, will it, Derek?” Emily is there, her face impassive. “You and me, we’re going to go for a walk. We’ll talk it out, and you can take your anger out on something that won’t bleed, understood?” She glances at Rossi. “Hotch is asking for you. I’ll bring him back when he can be civil.” She levels a glare at Morgan.

Rossi nods. He turns to leave, but then spins back around. “Don’t come back,” he hisses, “until you’re ready to make amends.” He swallows. “I know, deep down, that you meant well. But you hurt two men who I care about deeply tonight, and no matter what your reasons, you have to live with that.” Rossi takes a deep breath. “Thank you,” he murmurs to Emily. 

Then he’s gone.

He doesn’t hear whatever Emily says to Morgan, doesn’t hear how she manages to convince him to leave with her. If anyone can wrangle Morgan, it would be Emily or Garcia. And since Penelope doesn’t know...well, Emily can make it happen.

She has to, otherwise Rossi might end up hitting Morgan himself. 

He doesn’t realize how angry he is until he lays eyes on Hotch and Reid. 

Hotch is hunched in a chair with two nurses hovering around him. One appears to be stitching a gash in the back of his head, while another tries valiantly to clean the blood from his face. He isn’t making it easy for them. He has both hands wrapped around Spencer’s thin wrist and hand, and anytime a nurse moves into his line of sight, he bats her away.

Spencer...Spencer is lying deathly still again. He’s pale, and Rossi can see specks of blood on his gown. He isn’t sure if the blood is his or Hotch’s. He hates that he even has to guess.

The nurse with hands full of a bloody washcloth nearly sprints to Rossi. “You’re Dave? Oh thank God. He needs...Agent Hotchner, he needs to get an x-ray of his wrist. It’s already swelling.” She huffs, glancing over her shoulder. Hotch appears to be oblivious to their presence. “I’d prefer a doctor look over him as well, due to his earlier concussion. He won’t leave. He barely consented to Megan stitching up his head.” She shakes her head sadly. “He won’t let me clean him up. He won’t even  _ talk, _ not to us at least.”

Rossi nods. “Can you give me a minute alone with them?”

The nurse’s mouth twists unhappily. “A few, but Doctor Reid needs to be seen as well. He may have torn his stitches. We can’t wait too long, or he could get infected.” She sighs and shakes her head. “I’m not quite sure what went down, but neither of these two needed it.”

She says it as if it’s Rossi’s fault, as if he could have prevented the whole thing.

There’s a part of him that wonders if he could have, if he could have told Morgan, broken Hotch’s confidence. He hates that he’s even thinking that, but wouldn’t that have been better than  _ this? _ Than the broken look on Hotch’s face? Than the worried nurses and unmoving Spencer? God, he hates this.

The nurse gathers her companion, and both of them move quietly out of the room.

Rossi pulls up a chair next to Hotch and quietly sits down to wait. Hotch will talk when he’s ready. Any attempt to force him to talk...well, Rossi wants them both to come out of this in  _ better _ shape than they are right now. 

Hotch finally sighs and glances sideways at Rossi. “They had to sedate him.” His voice cracks and Rossi can see tears in his eyes. He scrubs a hand over his weary, bloody face. “He was so afraid, Dave.”

Rossi reaches out, gently laying a hand on Hotch’s arm. He hates seeing him like this again, broken and frightened. “Of Morgan?”

Hotch shakes his head. “I don’t think he even recognized Morgan. He’s...he’s been having nightmares. Rozzanatti kills me, over and over again.” Hotch takes a shuddering breath, eyes locked on Spencer. “They’re more vivid than usual, the doctors think it’s one of his medications. When...when Morgan rushed me, he just...it threw him into a flashback.” Hotch swallows harshly. “They said he tore his stitches. Dave, I have to...how can I leave him?”

“You need to be seen, Aaron,” Rossi prods gently. “You won’t do him any good like this, you can’t even see straight.”

“What if he wakes up? Dave, I can’t not be here. I can’t...he was screaming for me, Dave.  _ Screaming _ . I couldn’t…” He breaks off in a sob. “Haley was so quiet. I could hear her breathing, hear her fear even though she was so quiet. Spencer...he screamed, Dave. I can’t unhear it. I can’t...I  _ can’t.” _

Rossi moves his hand to Hotch’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Aaron, you have to let a doctor look you over.”

The noise that Hotch lets out sounds like a wounded animal. Rossi flinches from the pain in a voice usually so stoic.

“I’ll stay with him, Aaron. I promise.” Rossi lets himself rub soothing circles into Hotch’s back. He notes the way Hotch flinches, and wonders exactly how many bruises Morgan left on his boss. “I’ll let him know where you are. I’ll make sure he’s safe. I promise you, I will.”

He will. He’ll promise -- and keep that promise -- anything he has to in order to keep Hotch and Reid safe. He only wishes he could have kept that promise before, could have kept Morgan from getting it wrong, could have kept him from storming the room at the wrong time. 

Rossi knows neither Spencer nor Aaron would blame him, not really. But he knows himself well enough to understand he’ll be paying penance for the lack of foresight for days to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not overly pleased with how this one ended, but I was struggling to wrap up the chapter. Hopefully that wasn't too weak of an ending.
> 
> Anyhow, fluff to come. Well, fluff with some sprinkles of angst cuz of course.
> 
> I also realized that I very much wrote myself into a corner here. There's uhhhhhh a lot of Conversations that have to happen and I was Not Prepared For That. Oops.
> 
> So, fluff until I figure out how to patch up Morgan and Hotch's relationship. Besides, I want more HotchReid cuddles.


	22. When You're Down and Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it be known that I have read and understood the requests of those asking for Anger @ Morgan. I do believe that is justified. Let it also be known that I don't intend this to be a Morgan bashing fic, but he does very much need to answer for his actions.
> 
> Full disclosure? I did not intend for him to go that hard. I have no idea where that violence came from, and we will be having an author/character chat before he pops back up on stage again.
> 
> For now, have some angst and a sprinkling of fluff. :-)

“Spencer, listen to me. Reid!  _ Reid!” _ Rossi reaches out and took the panicking young man by his shoulders. Gently, he shakes Spencer. “Spencer, for God’s sake, look at me!” 

Reid refuses to comply. He has only just woken up, and it is clear the sedative isn’t fully out of his system. He had immediately cried out for Hotch, and when Hotch didn’t respond, he’d flown into a panic. Currently, he’s desperately trying to get out of bed while Rossi valiantly fights to keep him down. 

“Goddamnit, kid.  _ Spencer Reid!”  _ Rossi finally raises his voice. He hates the sudden flash of fear that flickers on Reid’s face, and the way he flinches back, but at least he  _ stops moving. _ “Spencer, you’re okay.”

Reid stares wide-eyed at Rossi. “Wh-where’s Aaron?”

“He’s stepped out for a minute.” Rossi opts for the barest minimum of information. He doesn’t need Reid remembering what happened -- any of it, really -- and flying off the handle again. 

The last thing he wants is to see the kid put under again. He’s had enough of too-still, doped out, panicked Spencer Reid. It reminds him too much of just how fragile the thread between life and death is for all of them, but especially for this kid. This kid who’s practically a son to him. He can’t see him put under. Not again.

Neither can Hotch, if he manages to think about anyone else for a damned minute.

“Why?” Reid’s raspy voice snaps Rossi out of his musings.

“He needed to see a nurse about something for you.” It isn’t a lie, not … not really. Fixing himself up is as much for Reid’s benefit as it is for Hotch. Hell,  _ Reid doesn’t need to see you like this _ is the only thing that finally got Hotch out of the room. 

Reid licks his lips, and Rossi realizes he’s thirsty. Carefully, he helps Spencer sip on some water, then settles him back against the pillows.

“Wh-what happened?” Reid’s voice is a terrified whisper.

Fear shoots through Rossi like a bullet. How much did the kid forget? 

“What do you remember?” Rossi counters.

Spencer actually  _ snorts, _ and for a split second, something like snobbish derision passes over his face. It’s a look so utterly  _ Spencer _ that Rossi breaks into a grin.

“I’m not …  _ that _ far gone.” Reid takes a deep breath. “Aaron. What happened to Aaron?” He swallows, and the fear is back. “Someone… Rossi, someone attacked him. Oh God, Rossi. Help… I have to--”

Rossi pushes Reid gently back into the bed. “Aaron is going to be alright. He’s just a little banged up. I promise, kid.”

Spencer stills, but doesn’t relax. Rossi gets the feeling that if he moves his hand even slightly, the kid will be trying to jump up out of the bed.

_ “What happened?” _ It’s a menacing hiss, and Rossi tries not to flinch.

“Morgan.” Rossi spits the name with more venom than he intended. Sitting here, watching the unnaturally slow rise and fall of Reid’s chest, gave his own trepidation over the incident time to ferment into something closer to anger. “Morgan caught Aaron trying to calm you. After a nightmare. You were screaming.” Rossi tilts his head, hoping Reid can fill in the blanks.

“Oh God.” Reid stares at Rossi for a moment, and then he’s fighting again. “Oh  _ God.  _ Aaron. No, Rossi, dammit--let me… I need to get--Aaron, I need Aaron. Rossi,  _ damn you--” _

“Spence.”

Both Rossi and Spencer freeze at the sound of Aaron’s voice. Spencer’s head jerks up, and then Rossi finds himself shoved out of the way as Aaron charges up to Spencer.

Reid clings to Aaron as if he’s just come back from the dead, hands twisting into Aaron’s t-shirt. Aaron wraps his arms around Reid as if he’s something fragile but infinitely precious. For a moment there is silence, then Spencer starts to sob softly. When Aaron’s own shoulders begin to shake, Rossi decides it's time for him to step out.

The two of them have had enough company for one day, and damn do they deserve some rest.

Rossi slips from the room and sets off to find one Derek Morgan.

* * *

It takes a while before either of them is ready to let go, not that they even notice the time. They’re too lost in whispered reassurances and desperate embraces to even think about the journey of a clock’s hands. 

The last two hours have been hell on Aaron. Being torn from Spencer’s side by someone he trusted with both his life and the life of his lover would be enough to unsettle him even on a good day. Then having to listen to Spencer’s broken screams while Morgan tried his best to beat the  _ hell _ out of Aaron -- he’s broken, hurting, and exhausted. There is nothing --  _ nothing -- _ that he wants more than to curl his aching body around Spencer’s and hold him until the rest of the world fades away.

He can’t do that, not yet. Not until he’s made sure that Spencer is okay, that his stitches are reset and his vitals are stable and his mind -- his wonderful, blessed mind -- is at peace. Judging from the almost fight Rossi was having with Spencer when Aaron walked in, he doubts very much that Spencer is at peace. 

“You’re alright,” Aaron finally murmurs. It’s the first coherent thing out of his mouth in several minutes. He runs his hand up Spencer’s spine, humming a soothing note as he nuzzles into Spencer’s hair.

Spencer shakes his head violently, and clutches Hotch closer to his chest. Hotch can’t help a small huff of laughter at the adorably pouty growl that Spencer lets out.

“Okay,  _ I’m _ alright,” Aaron corrects. 

Spencer huffs, then pushes back from Hotch. Aaron lets him go reluctantly, knowing damn well the reaction he’s going to get once Spencer gets a good look at the damage Morgan managed to do.

There’s an extra patch of gauze over a new set of stitches in the side of his head. He’s got the beginnings of a black eye and bruises around his (miraculously unbroken) nose. There’s a nice new scrape over his cheekbone, and a bulky black brace around his wrist. Somehow, he hadn’t broken anything, but only badly sprained his lower arm and wrist when he fell against the wall. 

It’s not much, really. Especially not compared to the broken ribs, sutures, bruises, and blood that Spencer has gained (and lost). 

Clearly, Spencer disagrees. His face breaks as he catches sight of Aaron’s face.

“No,” he whispers. His fingers ghost over the scrape, lingering a bit near the black eye, and finally sliding down to rest on Aaron’s chest. “Oh, no. Please….God, Aaron, I’m so sorry.”

“Hey,” Aaron whispers. He sneaks a finger under Spencer’s chin, tilting his face up until they are eye to eye. “This isn’t on you.”

Spencer shakes his head. “Aaron, no.” He escapes Aaron’s grasp, glancing down at the brace on Aaron’s wrist. Spencer’s fingers skim over the brace, gently brushing against bits of Aaron’s skin that peek through. “He did this because of  _ me.” _

Anger flares in Aaron’s chest, hot and white and violent. Anger against Morgan, for letting his temper lead him  _ again. _ Anger for the bruises that sting and ache and take his attention away from Spencer. Anger for the hurt and fear on Spencer’s face right now. He is  _ angry _ and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“No,” Aaron hisses, low and fierce. “No, he did it for himself.” 

Doubt reigns on Spencer’s face as his hands continue to flit over Aaron’s broken skin. It hurts Aaron, a deep, sharp ache, to see his lover so concerned and still in so much pain himself. Pain is etched in every bit of Spencer’s face, even if he’s clearly trying to hide it. His hands are jerky instead of graceful, and Aaron knows how much the effort is costing him.

“No, no, no.” Spencer’s fingers linger on Aaron’s jaw. “I can’t believe...my fault, Aaron. I’m so, so sorry.” 

Aaron catches Reid’s hand in his. He presses his lips to Reid’s palm, tenderly trailing kisses down to his wrist. 

“Stop,” Aaron breathes. He clutches Reid’s hand close to his chest. “Don’t you dare. This, this is all Morgan.” He shakes his head. “He made these decisions,  _ not _ you.”

Reid shakes his head. “If it wasn’t for me, Aaron --”

“I’d be nothing,” Aaron spits fiercely. 

Reid blinks, shocked.

“I would take Morgan in one thousand and one fights before I would even consider giving you up,” Aaron growls. “No matter how many bruises he gives me, they can’t outnumber the ways you’ve saved me. Dammit, Spencer.” Aaron clenches his jaw. “Morgan let his own prejudices cloud his judgement. That’s entirely on him. None of this --” he waves his brace in the air. “None of it is your fault.”

Reid’s lips twist unhappily. “Aaron--”

“Stop it.” Aaron brushes his fingers through Reid’s hair. “Spencer, you’re hurt worse than I am. You’re still recovering. You need to rest.”

Spencer shakes his head. “How...how can I?” Spencer tugs on his hand, but Aaron refuses to let go. “Aaron, he  _ attacked _ you. For me. I can’t just...I can’t ignore it.”

“And I’m not asking you to.” Aaron gently presses Spencer back into the bed. “Just pretend, for a little bit.” A frown flickers across Aaron’s forehead. “You know I don’t blame you.”

It’s more of a question than a statement, even though Aaron knows the answer. He can read it in the way Spencer avoids his eyes, the way he tries to escape the hold that Aaron has on his hand. 

Spencer swallows nervously. “I … you …” He shrugs.

“You don’t understand, Spencer, how much … how much you mean to me.  _ God, _ Cinnamon.” Aaron drops down onto his good arm, low enough that he can capture Reid’s lips in a kiss. It’s just on the far side of chaste, but Aaron has too many emotions running through his veins to worry about damned propriety. 

Aaron pulls back, resting his forehead on Spencer’s. “I love you, Spencer Reid.”

He feels Spencer smile under him. “I know, Aaron.”

Something in his tone doesn’t sit right with Aaron. He jerks up, staring down at Spencer. “Do you? Do you actually understand when I  _ say that _ how much I mean it?”

Spencer nods, but Aaron doesn’t believe him. 

“No. You don’t. Dammit, you never do.” Aaron pauses, scrubs his hand over his face and sighs. “I love you, Spencer Reid. I love you more than my own life.” He shakes his head. “When Morgan...when he pulled me away from you, all I cared about was  _ you. _ I was so afraid he--” Aaron freezes. “Oh. Oh god. Your stitches. Spencer, oh  _ shit.” _

Frantically, Aaron starts tugging at Spencer’s blankets. The stitches. How could he have forgotten?  _ Oh God, how many...how bad...did they check? Did anyone -- _

“Aaron. Aaron, stop! Aaron!” Spencer’s hands find Aaron’s, and Aaron finally pauses. “The nurses. They fixed them. It’s okay. I’m alright.”

Aaron lets his hands fall to rest over the largest of Spencer’s incisions.

“But they were torn? You did... _ dammit.”  _ Aaron swears as Spencer nods. “How many?”

Spencer shrugs. “Ten. I think.”

Aaron curses again, letting his head fall into his hands. He has to breathe through the anger that he feels towards Morgan, several deep breaths before he can face Spencer again.

“This. This is what I care about.  _ You. _ ” He shakes his head. “I don’t care about a black eye, or a splint. I care about the fact that you were screaming, trying to get to me, to  _ save _ me, and I couldn’t help you.” Aaron takes a shaky breath. “I care about not being able to get those screams out of my head because Morgan couldn’t  _ think _ first and act second. I don’t care what happens to me.”

Aaron pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t care what happened to me after Haley died. Until you. Until you showed up at my door with that ridiculous casserole.” He closes his eyes, trying to fight back the tears. “You brought meaning back into my life. When I say I love you... _ I love you.”  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spencer will be more upset in upcoming chapters. Right now, he's just sad, in pain, and blaming himself (as usual). He'll come around.
> 
> Next chapter *should* be pure fluff. This one was supposed to be only cuddles, but then all that happened. I'm unclear of how I feel about this chapter (I tend to dislike my own writing immediately after writing, only to come back weeks later and be like "wait, this isn't terrible") so please let me know what you think. Also, I very much love suggestions and ideas. There have been a few that have popped up that have definitely impacted the way this fic has progressed, and I love that!!
> 
> Anyhow, I'm on break right now (oh, and got an extra day because sure let's get sick and need a covid test. *eye roll*) So far, I'm okay, just mildly sick. But it's going around our school, so my doctor wanted me to get tested. I'm rambling. I'm sorry. 
> 
> Off to watch Mr. Scratch. I am terrified. Send help. Or comments. <3


	23. I Will Comfort You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was...a Project. It was most definitely a labor of love. Usually, I can write a chapter within an hour or two. I'm pretty sure I spent a solid 5 hours on this thing. 
> 
> Apparently, I can write angst and hurt better than pure fluff. Heck, it isn't even that fluffy. *sigh*
> 
> Anyhow, I think I'm satisfied with the result. :-) Hope you enjoy!

Aaron’s arm snakes around Spencer’s waist, a warm, solid weight that grounds him to the bed. He’s still in pain, from the re-opened stitches and from the bruises that litter his face and torso. It’s threatened to overwhelm him more than once, but every time, Aaron seems to step in to ground him. Spencer takes as deep a breath as he dares, and settles back against the heat of Aaron’s chest. He lets his head fall back, resting it in the crook of Aaron’s neck.

He’s grateful for the chance to settle again, to rest himself against Aaron. Part of him feels guilty, knowing that Aaron is sore as well, that the nurse who interrupted him came to check on Aaron too, not just Spencer’s stitches. But another part of him -- the profiler, probably -- notes the way Aaron relaxes as Spencer settles and the way his hand curls around Spencer’s ribs, grip tight and possessive. He needs this, perhaps more than Spencer does.

It never ceases to surprise and amaze him, these little glimpses into Hotch’s mind. The man usually holds his emotions close to his chest, but every now and then, he’s easier to read than a children’s book. Spencer is grateful for those moments. He needs the openness, the vulnerability. Without it, he’s left floundering in uncertainty and a nagging fear of abandonment. He knows Aaron loves him. For how long is the question that’s always in the back of his mind. 

Most people, when asked to guess, would assume that Hotch is the one who can’t express his emotions verbally. Outside of Jack and Spencer, they would be right. When it comes to his loved ones, somehow those famous Hotchner walls seem to crumble, leaving a strangely vulnerable Aaron behind. Spencer loves him for it, loves that he’s the only one who really gets to see behind the Hotch persona that Aaron dons every morning when he walks into Quantico. 

Spencer, on the other hand, is tongue-tied. He’s never sure how to say what he needs to say, and that’s if he can figure out exactly what it is that he  _ wants _ to say. He’s struggled with understanding his emotions since he was a child, and even when he can piece together the stronger bits -- love, lust, sadness, anger -- he can rarely find the words. He’s often left stammering and struggling, grateful that Aaron is patient and willing to play some guessing games until they get to the root of Spencer’s troubles.

Right now, he’s stuck. He’s not sure how to respond to Aaron’s monologue from prior to the nurse’s interruption. There was an almost desperate sincerity to Aaron’s voice, as if he were afraid Spencer might misunderstand him, or not listen to him properly. Spencer had heard the words, he had heard the emotion behind them, but if he were honest, he isn’t quite sure he  _ understood. _ He has no real way of asking, either. He’s not sure what question he would ask --  _ why _ did you say all that? What did you mean? What do you want from me? How long? -- they all sound callous and don’t nearly meet what he really wants to say.

_ Why me? _ Why, of all people, did Aaron Hotchner pick  _ him, _ and why is he still  _ with _ him?

And why on  _ earth _ does he think that Spencer is worth those precious, gold-filled words?

“Did you hear what I said earlier?” Hotch murmurs into Spencer’s curls. The gentle rumble of his voice breaks Spencer out of his musings.

Deflection. Deflection usually works.

“Yes,” Spencer whispers back. He tilts his face up towards Aaron’s, a small smile on his face. “I love you too.” He wraps one hand gently around the back of Hotch’s neck, and pulls him down for a gentle kiss.

He puts what he can’t say, what he can never get out in words into the kiss. Love, devotion, concern -- all wrapped up in the sloppiness that comes with his exhaustion. 

Aaron returns the kiss, with a bit more finesse and no less emotion.

“Don’t think you can distract me,” Aaron says when he finally pulls back. “I know you too well.” He cups Spencer’s cheek, thumb caressing his skin. 

Spencer huffs. He’s not getting out of this discussion, apparently.

“I heard you,” he says slowly. His lips twist in that way that he  _ knows _ is a tell. 

Aaron spots it, but instead of looking frustrated, as Spencer always expects, he simply keeps up the soothing motion of his thumb on Spencer’s cheek.

“Okay. Did you understand what I meant?”

Spencer’s brow furrows.  _ Yes. And no. So maybe? No, that’s not right…. _

“Literally, yes.”  _ There we go.  _ Spencer turns his face into Aaron’s hand, nuzzling into his palm. “I know...I know you love me.” The words are muffled by Aaron’s skin, but he knows his lover understands. They’ve had many conversations like this, Spencer too uncomfortable to look Aaron in the eyes, but too afraid to break skin contact. It grounds him, the same way eye contact seems to ground most people. 

Aaron hums. “Can you tell me what it is you don’t understand?” When Spencer hesitates, Aaron presses his lips to Spencer’s temple. “It doesn’t have to be pretty. Just say the first words you think of. Please?”

Spencer’s stomach twists, like it does every time Aaron asks this of him. He’s afraid, afraid that the lack of finesse to his speech, the blunt effect his words have will push Aaron away, like they have everyone else in his life. But somehow, they haven’t yet. 

There’s silence for several long moments, silence that Spencer knows is meant to comfort and not rush him. Aaron’s giving him time to process his thoughts, time to find the courage to spit out the words he’s got knocking around in his head.

“Why,” he finally forces himself to say. “Why me?”

Whatever Hotch was expecting, it obviously wasn’t that. He stares at Spencer, clearly wrong-footed by the question.

“What?”

Spencer’s shoulder twitches towards his ear, that small tic he gets when he’s nervous, uncomfortable. He can’t read Aaron’s expression, can’t make heads nor tails of the tone in his voice.

“Why me?” Maybe if he rephrases the question, he’ll get an answer out of Aaron. “Of everyone you could have, why do you love  _ me? _ Why are you still with me?”

Aaron’s jaw drops.  _ “What?” _

Suddenly Spencer’s entire world tilts as Aaron slides out from underneath him. If it weren’t for the gentle way that Aaron’s strong arms lower him gently back to the bed, Spencer would think his mental world is about to shatter as well. 

In the next second Aaron is hovering over Spencer, his dark eyes wide and full of concern. 

“Cinnamon, how can you ask me that?” Aaron’s voice is laced with equal measures confusion and worry. “How … Spencer,  _ God, _ I love you. How can you not … ” He shook his head. “No. I know you understand. I just … How can you not see what I see?”

Cool fingers skim along the side of Spencer’s face. Spencer’s eyes snap up to Aaron’s. Shock hits him like cold water as he sees tears in the corners of Aaron’s eyes.

“How can you not see how beautiful you are to me? How much your knowledge amazes me?” Aaron’s voice wobbles, and Spencer marvels at the sound of it. “How can you not see how happy you make Jack, how much your love for him makes me weak in the knees? Cinnamon, you are kind, and gentle, and so creative. You always find something to smile about or some way to make us laugh on even the worst cases. How … how could I not love you?”

Spencer swallows around the lump in his throat. After a year and a half, he still doesn’t know what to do when Hotch is this honest, this earnest. It still feels like a trap, like Aaron is laughing at him, just like Alexa Lisbon did all those years ago.

Something must show in his face, because in an instant, Aaron’s lips are on his and his fingers are clutching at Spencer’s curls. Aaron kisses him senseless, breathless,  _ speechless.  _

“You cannot --” another kiss “-- possibly expect --” and another “-- me to want anyone else --” one more, and finally Spencer can breathe. Not that he really wants to. “After everything we’ve been through together.”

Aaron’s forehead rests against his own, a gentle, calming pressure that steadies Spencer’s racing heart. 

“Spencer, this … this is something we have to discuss. Dave, he … he made me realize a few things.”

Spencer feels his heart jump again at Aaron’s words. Fear spikes through him, despite the last few minutes. It’s a response he can’t control, bred into him by the many people who have left him despite everything he thought they had together.

Aaron can read him easily, as always. He immediately turns pale as he takes in Spencer’s frightened face.

“No, not -- God, Cinnamon, not like that.” 

Gentle fingers massage his scalp, and Aaron’s lips find his again. This time, he’s gentle, reassuring, and Spencer melts into him. He brings his arms up around Aaron’s back, trying to pull him closer, wanting and needing that closeness. He needs something solid to hold on to, to anchor him in this rollercoaster of emotions and fatigue and confusion. A sudden ripple of pain up his side leaves him gasping instead.

Aaron flies backwards, cursing. “Spencer, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Spencer wants to tell him it’s fine, like he usually does, except it very much  _ isn’t _ fine and he can’t quite breathe just yet. It takes him nearly a full two minutes to be able to breathe without feeling like his ribs are breaking. Aaron is just about ready to find a nurse when Spencer waves him back.

“I’m okay, I’m alright. I can breathe again.”

That’s when he realizes that Aaron is shaking, his one good hand hovering over Spencer’s body is trembling. 

“God, you scared me,” he finally whispers. He sits back on the bed gingerly and reaches out to brush a few wayward curls off of Spencer’s forehead. “You need to rest, my Cinnamon.”

As if suddenly remembering it’s own fatigue, a wave of exhaustion washes over Spencer’s body. He blinks slowly before shaking his head. He needs to know.

“Rossi. What … what did … what are you …” Spencer trails off, unable to string the right words together.

“I need you,” Aaron murmurs. Gently, he slides Spencer over so that he can slip into the narrow bed next to him. “I need you in my life.” 

He wraps an arm around Spencer. It’s exactly the grounding that Spencer needs.

“I need you so much,” Aaron repeats. He presses a kiss to the top of Spencer’s head. “And I never tell you that.” His grip on Spencer tightens, and Spencer relaxes back into him. “Later, after we’ve both rested. Then we can talk.”

Spencer lets those words bounce around in his head.  _ I need you. So much. In my life. _ He’s not sure anyone had ever told him that before, not outside of the context of “we need your memory” or “we need your speed reading skills”. This is something else entirely, something more visceral, something deeper.

Aaron needs  _ him.  _ Not his skills, not his brain, not his memory.  _ Him. _ Even with all the ridiculous, twisted mess that he is?

“Why?” It’s all he can think of, all he can say.

“Because,” Aaron whispers. His good hand begins to trace patterns on Spencer’s arm. “Because you’re Spencer Reid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Morgan returns to the stage.
> 
> Let me know what you thought of this chapter. It was the hardest chapter thus far for me to write, so I'm very uncertain as to the result. Hopefully it was good. I have such high hopes for my fluff, but sometimes its just hella hard to write.
> 
> I hope to be back again soon. I'm on break right now, which is nice. I should probably be working on stuff for grad school, but writing is more relaxing. Well, kinda. This chapter was stressful af. 
> 
> Anyhow, until next time, y'all!! <3


	24. Friends Just Can't Be Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I present you: Morgan.  
> Well, Morgan and Emily and Rossi.

Emily refuses to talk to Morgan until they’ve cleared the hospital. She ignores everything he says, and blocks every move he makes with a stony expression that could rival Hotch’s. She marches him out the main doors, around the corner, and still they keep going. Morgan marvels at the deadly silence she manages to maintain, the air of authority that actually has him cowering -- just a little bit. Finally, Emily steers him into the hospital garden and pushes him down onto a bench.

“Sit down, shut up, and listen,” she snaps.

“Prentiss, no, you listen-- ” Morgan goes to stand up, but Emily stabs her finger into his chest.

“Oh, no. I have no desire to listen to you.” She steps back, and Morgan flinches from her glare. “You lost my attention the minute you attacked the man we both call boss and friend. I get to talk now.”

“Prentiss--”

“Morgan? Shut up.” She waits, hands on her hips, until he falls back onto the bench. “That’s better. If you have  _ anything _ you think needs to be said, then you can explain this.” Emily’s hands fly into the air, as if indicating the whole of the hospital garden. “Explain to me exactly why you thought it necessary to  _ beat up _ a man that, until a short while ago, you trusted with your life. No, don’t even think about talking yet.”

Emily cuts him off before turning to pace in front of him. 

“I don’t know what the  _ hell _ got into you, Morgan.” He opens his mouth to protest --  _ Hotch was attacking Reid -- _ but she bulldozes right over him. “Oh, I’m sure I can guess what you  _ think _ you saw. But what the hell makes you think that Hotch -- our Hotch, remember him? The man who crumbles under kid cases, the man who protects Garcia’s glitter with his life -- that Hotch? What makes you think Hotch would harm a hair on  _ any _ of our heads, let alone  _ Reid? _ Have you seen the way he  _ looks _ at that kid?”

“That’s the whole  _ point, _ Prentiss --” Morgan shoves himself to his feet, taking a step towards Emily.

She doesn’t even blink, just advances on him and shoves him backwards.

“Morgan, get your head out of your ass already. You think we don’t know? That we don’t remember every single time we have a case like that? We remember, Morgan. We know. Our hearts hurt for you. We wish we could change it, heal you, take those memories away from you.” Emily scrubs a hand across her forehead, pain flashing across her face. “That doesn’t mean you have to go out there -- it doesn’t give you the right to beat up Aaron fucking Hotchner.”

“It does if he --”

“I  _ was not finished.” _ Emily’s eyes are like smouldering coals of fire, and Morgan decides maybe not to interrupt her again. He’s gone ten rounds with her before, in training, and knows she can kick ass. He’s not sure he really wants to tempt her, not as he can feel his own adrenaline fading, the rush from what he saw blending to doubt that  _ maybe _ he was wrong.

“Thank you,” she huffs, noting the slump to Morgan’s shoulders. “Whatever is in your past, Morgan, you need to learn to leave it there, where it belongs. Hotch isn’t Buford, Morgan, and Reid isn’t you.” She’s quiet for a moment, waiting for the weight of her words to hit Morgan full force. When she starts again, she’s lost some of the fire, though her words are just as sharp. “They’re both grown men, adults. Reid isn’t helpless, and you should know that, you've trained him. And do you  _ really _ think that Hotch would try something in a damned  _ hospital? _ Where the hell is your  _ brain,  _ Morgan?”

Emily’s shoulders heave once, and she seems to deflate slightly. “He’s having nightmares, Derek. Rossi was telling me about them. He can’t stand to have Hotch out of his sight, and he keeps thinking that Rozzanatti is killing Hotch. That’s why he was screaming.” 

She sighs, and it’s a mournful sound. Something twinges in Morgan’s chest to know that he put that note in her voice.

“Hotch was trying to comfort him, calm him down. And then what do you manage to do? Tear in there and stick Spencer right into the middle of one of his nightmares. Christ, Morgan.”

“I didn’t know,” Morgan responds quietly. “I thought he was forcing something on Reid…” He trails off, unwilling to continue. Emily’s fired up enough as it is, he doesn’t need to verbalize the rest of his suspicions to her. He doesn’t need to ask how she’s sure Hotch  _ isn’t _ forcing himself on Reid … just on a more long-term scale. How does she know Hotch isn’t leveraging his position over Reid? Morgan can feel his blood start to boil again, just thinking about it. He has to know, has to ask.

Sooner, rather than later.

“I know, Derek.” Emily rubs her temples. “You’ve made such a mess.” She sighs again. “Look, I’m not asking you to trust me on this. I know you probably still think there’s something messed up about their relationship. Just...talk to Rossi, okay? Before you try and talk to either of them? Rossi...he knows more than I do. Give them a chance, okay? Please?”

Morgan grits his teeth. “Emily --”

“Don’t take that tone with me, Derek Morgan. That wasn’t really a suggestion.” The fire is back, and Morgan can tell he’s misstepped. She read his mind, somehow. “You owe them that, both of them.”

“I owe it to Reid to make sure he’s safe,” Morgan spits in return.

“You owe your life and your job to Hotch, several times over,” Emily growls back. “And if nothing else, stop giving the rest of us a fucking headache just so you can go on a crusade to exorcise your own damn demons.”

* * *

Morgan manages to sneak past Rossi on his way back in. He makes it to Reid’s room, but freezes as he catches a glimpse of the surprisingly domestic scene within. 

Spencer is curled up on the bed, knees tucked up as far as he can comfortably get them. His head rests on Hotch’s chest, rising and falling with each of Hotch’s breaths. Hotch has one hand wrapped around Spencer’s waist, and another running gentle fingers through Spencer’s curls. He’s watching something on the TV, but Morgan isn’t paying attention to anything other than the two figures on the bed. 

Spencer’s fingers trail lazy patterns on Hotch’s chest. Morgan notes with some bitterness that he’s slipped his fingers in between the buttons on Hotch’s shirt, that Spencer Reid -- his little brother -- is tracing patterns on Hotch’s -- his  _ boss’s  _ \--  _ bare skin. _ It burns his skin to watch, but the anger isn’t as fiery as it was before. It’s more like smoldering coals, rather than an untameable inferno.

Emily has calmed that blaze, just enough to help him see reason. He’s still angry, but his anger has turned more from what he thought he was witnessing to the lies that he’s been told -- by Rossi, Hotch, Reid -- and to the thought that Hotch is holding something over Reid’s head. He knows he needs to apologize, but he can’t, can’t bring himself to say those words, not yet. Not until he knows what this is all really about.

Morgan shifts, trying to decide the best way to handle this next bit. Does he confront both of them now, get this all out in the open, or does he wait until tomorrow, wait until the sun has put another few hours between his anger and his friends? Does he charge in there, half cocked as he is, or does he listen to Emily and just  _ think _ first? Part of him worries that thinking about the situation may make it worse. 

Morgan is so caught up with trying to make sense of what his next step should be that he misses, well, what his next step should be. He trips, smacking into a chair and managing to crack the chair off the glass door leading into Reid’s room.

Hotch glances up instantly and catches Morgan’s eye through the glass. Anger rumbles across his face, dark and stormy like thunder. The hand around Spencer’s waist tightens. Hotch shakes his head once; the message is clear.  _ Get away. _ Spencer’s head lifts up slightly, and he must say something to Hotch. Hotch glances down at the young man on his chest, and Morgan sees his face soften. It’s a change he’s never seen before, even when Hotch is talking to Jack. Hotch shakes his head again, gentle this time, mouthing something that must soothe Spencer. Reid lays his head back down, snuggling into Hotch.

Hotch watches him for a moment, that soft look on his face. Once he seems to be satisfied that Spencer is asleep again, he turns his attention back to Morgan. His face hardens again, anger hard as flint in his eyes. He stares Morgan down for several long moments, before his eyes flick to the side and he relaxes. 

Morgan doesn’t have a chance to follow Hotch’s line of sight before a hand lands on his shoulder and someone spins him around.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

_ Rossi. _

“I just wanted to talk --” Morgan starts.

“Maybe you think you should wait?” Rossi hisses. “Until the man you assaulted  _ wants _ to talk?”

“I --”

“You nothing. Emily told me she brought you back, and then you vanished on her. I was hoping I was wrong about you coming here, but clearly your judgement is still cloudy as hell.” Rossi huffs. 

He glances in at Hotch, who appears to be completely ignoring them. Both men know better. There’s a set to Hotch’s shoulders that means he hasn’t relaxed just yet, and a tilt to his head that suggests he’s listening carefully.

“Let’s go,” Rossi prods at Morgan’s shoulder. “You wanna talk to someone, you can talk to me. Talk to Hotch or Spencer tomorrow. Or better yet, wait for them to talk to you.”

“Rossi, don’t --” 

“Derek Morgan,” Rossi snarls. “Don’t test me. You pressed your luck far past any healthy limit today. Press it much farther and you’ll do real damage.”

Morgan swallows hard. “Fine. Look … I messed up. I get that.” He clenches his fist, trying to force himself to say what he needs to say. “Emily said … she said I should ask you. About them.”

Rossi glares at him for a long moment. Finally, with a deep breath, he wraps his hand around Morgan’s arm and leads him down the hall.

“Fine. But you don’t say a word until I’m done, understood?”

Morgan nods once before glancing back, just in time to see Hotch relax and bury his face in Reid’s hair. It burns just a little less than it did before.

* * *

“They’ve been together for a year and a half,” Rossi starts. 

He hands Morgan a cup of coffee, which Morgan accepts quietly. He’s still angry, but with each passing moment, he finds the fire dying slowly as the realization of what he’s done hits home. He still doesn’t trust what Hotch and Reid have, doesn’t trust that Hotch isn’t bribing Reid somehow to get what he wants, but he can see that what he’s done … hell, he’s made a mess.

As Rossi sketches a picture of the two of them, ice grows in Morgan’s veins. He’s made worse than a mess, he’s made a disaster. If what Rossi tells him is true, the only thing Hotch is holding over Reid is a sense of commitment and love. And Morgan … Morgan tried to take that from him. Morgan ripped Hotch from a terrified Reid. Morgan fulfilled Reid’s nightmares of Hotch getting injured by a raging madman. Morgan … Morgan made it  _ worse. _

And he called himself Reid’s friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I'm struggling a bit with getting Morgan from ANGERY (misspelling intentional) to OH SHIT. He went wayyyy harder at Hotch than I had intended, so getting him to repent requires some extra thinking. I hope it's coming across okay.
> 
> We will have some Spencer and Hotch being less than happy with Morgan in the near(ish) future. But, I also had some fluff ideas that I want to try and get down before they vanish on me. Wish me L U C K.
> 
> Also, feel free to suggest things that you would like to see. I love ideas from y'all.
> 
> OH YEAH. Not-so-fun-fact. A week ago I got my positive Covid result back. So i've been stuck at home all week. It has Not Been A Fun Time. At all. But, today was good and I got some writing done. Success!


	25. I Will Lay Me Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this?   
> This is a very short bit of pure fluffery. That I managed to write in a decent time frame. 
> 
> I came up with this scene while falling asleep the other night, and I couldn't resist it. :-)

“Was that Morgan?” Spencer’s voice is muffled from where his head is buried in Aaron’s chest.

Aaron’s only answer is a low grumble.

“Is he still there?”

Aaron takes a deep breath. “No. Rossi came.”

There’s silence for a moment, then Spencer shifts to look up at Aaron. “Good.” He pauses. “Are you okay?”

Aaron huffs. “I didn’t want you to know he was there.”

Spencer smiles up at him, and it's a gorgeous thing to see. He’s tired, worried about Aaron, but there’s nothing Aaron would rather see than that smile.

“You don’t usually get that tense for no reason,” Spencer murmurs.

“I suppose you’re not wrong.” Hotch lets himself laugh. “I didn’t want to talk to him.”

“I’d rather not even see him,” Spencer growls.

Aaron glances down at Spencer, confusion clear in his eyes. “Spencer?”

“He took you away from me, Aaron. He hurt you.” Spencer’s fingers ghost over the brace on Aaron’s arm. “I can’t forgive that. Not now, anyway.”

Aaron sighs. “I can’t … I should, but I can’t argue with that. Not today.” He gives Spencer a sad half-smile. “He took you away from me, too, with that stunt. I was terrified for you.”

“Me? You’re the one he was beating to a pulp.”

Aaron shakes his head. “You were terrified, Spencer. I thought you were going to fall out of bed. Hell, you ripped your stitches out.”

Spencer offers him a one-shoulder shrug. “Just a few.”

“Even one is too many,” Aaron hisses. “He hurt you, regardless of the fact that he didn’t even lay a single hand on you.” Aaron’s hand tightens on Spencer’s waist again. “I can’t … I hate that. It’s … it’s going to take a while until I can … he hurt you, Cinnamon.”

Spencer wraps his fingers around Aaron’s. “Hey, it’ll … we’ll work something out.”

Aaron nods, lips pressed tightly together. “Eventually. But I can’t … I won’t let him just pretend nothing’s happened. Not after that.”

* * *

Later that night, after finally managing to convince Spencer to eat, Aaron declares that it’s time they both try to rest. He slides off the bed, ready to head to his own little cot. He hates to leave Spencer, but surely the man will sleep better if he’s not squished in the damn bed, stuck between him and the rails. Aaron despises the fact that they can’t be together, that he can’t just hold Spencer in his arms. He sighs, and heads towards his go bag.

He doesn’t make it very far. Spencer shoots out a hand to grab Aaron’s shirt, stopping him in his tracks..

“Aaron? Stay with me? Please?”

Aaron leans in, good hand ruffling Spencer’s hair. “Spence, you need sleep. Good sleep. Me being in that bed, it’ll just --”

“Aaron, please.”

Aaron freezes. He knows that tone, knows the way Spencer worries his lip with his teeth. He turns to kneel next to the bed.

“What’s wrong, Cinnamon?”

Spencer’s head tics sideways, ear nearly touching his shoulder. “I’m … I’m fine. I just …” His lips twist, and Aaron knows he’s lying.

“Hey, you know you can tell me anything, Spencer.” Aaron runs his fingers through Spencer’s hair. “What’s bothering you?”

Spencer’s long fingers pluck the hospital blanket, and Aaron knows.

“The hospital?”

Spencer twitches again. He buries his head in his hands, roughly tugging at his hair. 

“I should be … I should be grateful I know. This is the best place for me. I know why the blankets feel like this, they’re made so that they can be easily cleaned and sterilized and not house tens of thousands of bacteria and I know the alarms go off every few seconds to keep the nurses alert and help them know when someone needs help and I know they use fluorescent light because --”

“Spencer. Cinnamon, it’s alright.” Hotch rubs his hands up Spencer’s arms. “You’re alright. Hey, can you lift your head up for me?”

Spencer peeks out from behind his hands. “I shouldn’t … I know it’s just --”

“Spencer. You’re okay. I understand.” Aaron leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to Spencer’s forehead. Slowly, he collects Spencer’s hands in his, watching carefully for any sign that this isn’t okay with Spencer. “I forgot how much hospitals bother you, that’s all.”

Spencer twitches again, but manages to nod. “I just … you keep me calm? And when you’re near me, I can’t … I can’t smell the antiseptic. Just you and gunpowder and cedar and …”

“Shhhhhh, Spencer.” Aaron leans forward, wrapping Spencer in his arms. He smiles as Spencer melts into the embrace. “You don’t have to explain. You can always ask for what you need.”

“So you’ll stay with me?” The words are muffled by Aaron’s sweater, but he can make them out well enough.

“Of course,” Aaron nuzzles into Spencer’s hair. 

“Thank you,” Spencer whispers. His grip on Aaron tightens, as if he’s afraid Aaron will evaporate into thin air. “Thank you so much.”

“I’m not leaving you, not now, and not ever,” Aaron whispers into Spencer’s hair.

* * *

Hotch shrugs on his softest flannel, leaving it unbuttoned. When Spencer is like this, overstimulated and frustrated by his surroundings, he prefers the feel of skin rather than even the softest material -- other than a few select plush blankets. 

Once they’re both ready for bed, Aaron slides himself in next to Spencer. It takes a bit of wrangling, and more than a few winces of pain -- from both of them -- but eventually they manage to curl up somewhat comfortably.

Spencer makes a contented noise as he wraps his arm around Aaron’s waist. He sneaks his hand under the soft flannel of Hotch's shirt, seeking skin. His hand finally comes to rest on Aaron’s hip, thumb moving in a rhythmic pattern over one of Foyet’s scars.

It used to bother Aaron when Spencer touched the scars. After Foyet, after Haley, Aaron never planned on letting anyone even see the scars, let alone  _ touch _ them. But there’s always been something in the reverent way that Spencer’s pale fingers ghost over the marks that soothes the phantom pains. He treats the marks as a part of Aaron, no stranger than the lines that define muscles or the dark hair that grows wild on his skin. 

It doesn’t bother him anymore. Part of him yearns for the way that Spencer accepts even this horrible part of him. Spencer’s fingers and lips and tongue have redeemed the angry red marks, and his touch still soothes away the pain -- real and imagined. Even now, stuck in some god-forsaken hospital room, the gentle touch of Spencer’s absentminded stimming relaxes Aaron.

He sighs and pulls Spencer closer to him.

“I love you, Spencer Reid.”

Spencer snuggles closer, pressing a kiss to Aaron’s bare chest. “I love you, Aaron Hotchner.”

Somewhere in the night, the two of them manage to drift off to sleep, taking comfort in one another’s arms. It’s almost as if nothing ever happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Garcia, a very short visitor, and some more cuteness.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed that!  
> I can't promise when the next chapter will be up, I go back to work soon, and that tends to cut into my writing time. BUT I'll be thinking and planning and I am excited for the cuteness of this next chapter. EEEEEHHHH!!!!
> 
> Thanks for all the well wishes, y'all. It means a lot to me that you guys care about me as a person and not just A Writer. I love you all and I'm so grateful that you've decided to join me on this (never ending) ride.
> 
> See you all soon!


	26. Give Me a Minute to Hold My Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is literally a fluffy disaster. <3
> 
> It is missing one visitor, because I decided to dedicate a whole big chapter to one small visitor. ;-)
> 
> Chapter title from the song of the same name by George Ezra. It felt appropriate to move into a more uplifting song as we head into more healing chapters of fluff.

As conscious washes over Aaron, so does a wave of despair. He is afraid to face today, to face another day waiting and watching while Spencer remains unconscious. He is afraid to spend one day closer to being forced back home, away from his lover, away from someone who has become his whole world -- next to Jack. 

Then his mind registers the warm weight pressed up against him, the gentle rise and fall of another’s chest, the cramped bedspace, and he  _ remembers. _

Joy floods him, as do his memories.  _ Spencer is awake. _ Spencer was awake yesterday and talking and coherent enough to demand Aaron’s presence in his bed. They spent the night wrapped up in each other, Spencer resting against Aaron’s chest, their legs intertwined. Spencer woke a few times in the night, in need of pain medication or soothing from a nightmare. Each time, Aaron was beyond grateful to be woken from his own sleep, beyond grateful to get to wrap his arms around his lover, to draw him close and comfort him.

Gratitude fills Aaron as he props himself on one elbow and gazes down at the still-sleeping Spencer. The bruises that decorate his face have begun to fade, and Aaron can see beautiful, clear skin starting to grow over broken wounds. Spencer’s lashes lay dark and lovely against his skin, and the angles of his face no longer look like the crags of a broken shore. 

Spencer moans a bit, but to Aaron’s ears it’s not an uncomfortable moan. He sounds almost the same way he does on all the mornings they wake tangled together in bed, stealing as many kisses as they can before Jack sneaks his way into their room. So Aaron leans over to wake him with a kiss, gentle but full of promise.

Spencer’s eyes blink open, and Aaron takes a moment to just get lost in the depths of his eyes. When he can’t stare anymore, he dips in for yet another kiss.

“Wha’d I do to deserve that?” Spencer murmurs, voice thick with sleep. 

Aaron smiles down at him. “You lived,” he whispers. He steals yet another kiss, this one a little more lonely, a little more desperate, a little more worried. “You came back to me.”

* * *

Penelope smiles to herself as she grabs the bag from the cashier. When Hotch had texted her late last night, she was more than happy to oblige. As a matter of fact, she promptly did a solid two hours of research into the purchase, bought one from an online store and  _ also _ bought this one for emergencies. This was definitely an emergency.

She could understand, of course she could. Hospital blankets were awful and scratchy and just plain  _ unfriendly.  _ She remembered Morgan bringing her a pile of her own blankets and pillows and stuffed animals from her home when she had been shot. They had most definitely affected her healing for the better, no matter the dirty looks that the nurses and doctors gave them.  _ She _ felt better, and that was what mattered.

Penelope isn’t a bit surprised that Spencer doesn’t have anything in his go bag. The poor kid seems to have gone his whole life just assuming something was wrong with him -- well, maybe it was more like  _ believing the mean things other people said.  _ It’s not as if he had any type of mentor in his life -- prior to them, she thinks with a smile -- to give him any evidence to the contrary. He just … rolled with the things that people said about him, never bothering to really lean into the ways he naturally has to comfort himself. He listened to those words, over and over, until he believed them.

She knows the words they whispered behind his back. She’s heard them too. She’s just had an easier time hiding from them, playing into the girls and fuzzy things stereotype. Not that that made her learning and social life any easier, but at least they didn’t outright tie her to goal posts.

She shudders. She hates that story so much. She’s glad she went back for the axolotl. Spencer deserves at least a dozen cute sea plushies for that story alone. 

Penelope blinks tears out of her eyes. She hates thinking about Spencer all alone in the world, at any time, but especially as a child. Well, maybe especially as a teenager -- no, well, okay,  _ any time _ she thinks about her Baby Genius alone, she tears up. 

It’s why she was relieved when Emily pulled her and JJ aside to tell them why Rossi had been keeping them out of Spencer’s room. JJ had been more pragmatic about it, a bit more ready to lean into the shovel talk for Hotch, a bit more suspicious of his motives. Penelope Garcia had squealed so loudly that three nurses had glared at her. 

Her head bobs a bit in a  _ so there _ manner at the invisible nurses in her mind. They should be happy for the two men in room 458 too. Hotch, with all of his hard edges and scary eyebrows, is really a teddy bear. A giant, kind of scary teddy bear, but a softie nonetheless. She can’t really lie, she’s super excited to get to be the first person into their room, the first person they’re ready to let see them together (other than Rossi, of course). She knows she really  _ shouldn’t _ coo over them, but she’s not sure she can help herself.

At least she can coo over Spencer and his presents. If he’ll let her. Maybe that will embarrass him.  _ Oh, I hope not...I just want to see him all wrapped up and cute. _ Penelope sighs. Maybe she shouldn't think that way, it’s not going to do her any good. She’ll just … not think until she walks into their room.

It doesn’t work, but she does try.

* * *

“Aaron? Why … why do you look as pleased as Garcia does?” Spencer scoots up on the pillows, wincing as his stitches pull. Hotch is at his side in an instant.

“Don’t do that, Spencer,” he admonishes as he helps adjust Spencer. His words are cut with a gentle kiss to Spencer’s curls.

They both turn red at the soft  _ ooohhh _ that Garcia lets out.  _ Shit. _

“Erm, Penelope…”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. Please, don’t … I didn’t mean to, it’s just that I’m so happy for you, both of you. You just …  _ fit _ and I can’t help it. It’s just you’re both so  _ cute.” _

Hotch’s flush deepens, and Spencer resists the urge to insist that he  _ agrees. _ Aaron would never forgive him for that. He does, however, reach out to tangle his fingers together with Aaron’s.

“I suppose I should be offended,” Hotch intones as he perches on the edge of the bed. “But as long as you don’t tell anyone that I let you get away with calling me cute …” Hotch grins down at Spencer. “I just might do it again.”

He does, but this time, Spencer grabs his shirt and pulls him in for a real kiss. Might as well give Garcia a show while she’s here. 

She positively  _ shrieks _ and Spencer nearly jumps out of his skin. He bumps into Aaron, who goes sprawling back onto the bed, and everything is chaos for a few minutes. By the time Spencer has stopped laughing and Garcia has stopped apologizing, Aaron seems to have lost some of his awkwardness. Spencer smiles up at him, squeezing his fingers again as Aaron resettles on the bed. 

“So,” Spencer says, grinning at Penelope. “Why do you both keep grinning at each other like a pair of school kids?”

Penelope squeals and grabs one of the bags she brought with her. 

“Well, you see, Mr. Bossman here called me last night, well sometime yesterday, I don’t really remember when, and he asked me to get this for you and I couldn’t resist and I had to get more than one, one’s for you now and one’s for later but that doesn’t matter right now, and anyhow -- ”

“Garcia!” Aaron laughs, and takes the bag from her. He sits back down on the bed and sets the -- strangely heavy -- bag on Spencer’s legs. Aaron glances down at his hands, almost shyly. “I asked Garcia to get this for you.” He clears his throat. “I know you hate sleeping here, in the hospital. You hate the blankets and the bedsheets and … well. Anyhow. Here.”

Spencer gives a surprised squeak as the bag lands on his legs. It’s heavy, far heavier than it looks, and it sounds like it’s full of small beads. He has  _ no _ idea what his lover and Garcia managed to dig up, and in all honesty, he’s a little worried.

It takes him a moment to dig through the purple glittery tissue paper -- clearly a nod to both Garcia’s style (glitter) and his favorite color (purple). When he finally wins the battle, he’s met with something purple, plush, and decidedly  _ not _ heavy.

It takes him less than a second to recognize it as a blanket, and for a solid minute he completely forgets his own shame and embarrassment at the way he is. He scoops the blanket out of the bag and buries his arms and face in the soft fabric. The plush feels heavenly on his skin after hours of scratchy cotton sheets and the horrid hospital gowns. Spencer grants himself the relief of just resting in the sensation, barely noticing the slight back-and-forth rocking motion he’s started up.

When he does realize, he peeks out from behind the blanket, face beet red. His shoulders relax when he catches the looks on Aaron and Peneleope’s faces. Penelope, well, he’s often suspected she’s like him; she just wields her differences like a cape: they make her cool and trendy. His just make him  _ weird. _ And Aaron -- Aaron has embraced these things that make him so different: embraced, encouraged, and protected them.

The look on Aaron’s face leaves Spencer breathless. It’s love, it’s peace, it’s  _ adoration. _ Spencer isn’t used to that look on any given day. Today, right here, right now, bruised and broken and buried in a damn  _ purple plush blanket, _ he doesn’t even understand.

“Aaron?”

Aaron’s face melts into a soft smile. He reaches one hand out to curl around Spencer’s cheek, one thumb stroking gently along his cheek. 

“You’re beautiful when you’re happy … and comfortable.” He smiles again, and Spencer knows what he means. 

It’s not often that he’s comfortable enough to let -- he sighs internally -- to let his autistic side show. He learned early on that it made him different, and that different was bad. He’s had that word --  _ autistic _ \-- leveled at him as an insult so many times that it’s hard for him to recognize it simply as a label, a definition of the collection of things that make him so …  _ Spencer-ish. _ Somehow, Aaron always manages to wrap those parts of him in gold and silver and hand them back to him as gifts, not curses.

Like right now.

Somehow the man has noticed how much Spencer  _ hates _ the fabric he’s surrounded with and the drab, hateful colors. He’s taken that, wrapped it up in Garcia’s glitter, and given him back something so soft and comfortable and  _ homey _ that Spencer thinks he just might survive his stay here.

“There is more, you know.” Aaron’s soft voice breaks into his thoughts, and he glances down at the bag. 

Sure enough, there’s something else down there, looking nearly as soft and decidedly as purple as the heavenly fluff in his arms. Whatever is in there is also  _ heavy. _ Spencer’s breath hitches as an idea hits him.

_ Did they …  _

Without a second thought, Spencer whirls the plush blanket over his shoulders like a cape and dives into the bag. The bag almost consumes him, and he squeaks with discomfort as the movement tears on his stitches.

Aaron swears, and Penelope yelps.

“Shit, I should have known it would be too heavy for you!” Aaron dives in and gently tugs the item from the bag. He proceeds to unfold it -- the gentle sound of soft beads clicking against one another like music to Spencer’s ears -- and lay it over Spencer’s legs.

The weight settles and Spencer’s eyes flutter closed.

_ Where the  _ hell _ did they get a weighted blanket?! _

* * *

Garcia leaves fifteen minutes later, promising to come back that afternoon. Spencer is clearly exhausted already from the short visit. He wants to talk to her, wants to gossip and chat and find out why she  _ still _ looks like she has a surprise up her sleeve. But his eyes are drooping and his whole body hurts again. For the time being, he really just wants to sink into purple plush and cuddle under the comforting weight of the heavy purple weighted blanket. And hold Aaron. Or be held. Either will work.

The nightmares have gotten better, but he still has a good bit of waking anxiety. When Aaron isn’t physically touching him, he’s perpetually afraid that someone will come and rip Aaron away from him. He’s aware he’ll have to deal with that, have to face that fear, but right now he just wants to be held.

So Penelope takes her leave, blowing kisses and grinning like a pleased cat at the two men holding hands on the bed. 

Aaron turns to smile softly at Spencer. “It’s time you took a rest, I think.”

Spencer nods. “I don’t want to, but I’m not sure I can stay awake.”

“Love, you need your rest.” Aaron runs his fingers through Spencer’s hair. “Don’t feel bad for that.” His gaze darkens. “I almost lost you, and I don’t intend to give your body any more chances to decide that it wants to give up on me.” He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Spencer’s lips. “Let’s get you settled.”

“Stay with me?” Spencer asked as Aaron helped him settle back on the bed. “Please?”

Aaron ran his hands over Spencer’s curls again. “You’re going to get sick of me, Cinnamon.”

Spencer shook his head, burying himself happily under the pleasant weight of his new blanket. “Nope.”

Aaron’s face broke into a delighted grin. “Good, because I don’t intend to get sick of you.”

Aaron gently pushed Spencer further to the side and slipped into the bed. He wrapped his arm around Spencer, and drew the smaller man close to his chest. He nosed his way into Spencer’s curls and kissed the top of his head.

“I love you, Cinnamon.”

Spencer leaned into Aaron’s side. He wrapped one hand around Aaron’s wrist. “I love you too, Aaron Hotchner. Too much.”

Aaron laughed, and Spencer grinned at the way the sound rumbled against his ear.

“Never,” he whispered.

This time, he leaned down to kiss Spencer on the lips.

This time, the two of them rather forgot about their surroundings, lost instead in one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long this update took. If you didn't jump on my other angst story _Break My Bones to Heal Your Pain_ , my dad died very unexpectedly about a month ago. When I'm hurting and upset, it's much easier for me to write the hurt part of hurt/comfort and the angst bits of angst with a happy ending. So I gave in and started a new story. I wanted to give this chapter the dedication it deserved as a fluff chapter, and haven't been in the mental space to do so.
> 
> I hope I ended up doing it a good service. I wanted to get an update out to y'all to let you know I haven't abandoned this (and to invite you to come see _Break My Bones_ as that might get more regular updates rn. I have lots of fluff still planned for this story, but it might take me a while to write it all out.
> 
> Especially the next chapter. I have SO MUCH planned for it, but I've got to be in the right head space for it. I cannot do a disservice to the visitor who shows up. Also, Garcia shall return, I promise. I'm struggling to write her right now. 
> 
> Anyhow, that's the update on me that no one really asked for but here we are. I love you all and your comments, support, and love are honestly helping me get through this unexpected trauma. I have no idea where I would be without fanfiction and my readers. Love you all <3


	27. I've Got Time, and I've Got Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ... was not meant to be. I had other plans for this chapter, but Aaron Hotchner decided otherwise.
> 
> Apologies for the short update, but I wanted to get something out to y'all. <3

Later that afternoon, Aaron gets a call that he chooses to take outside of the room. Spencer doesn’t find anything wrong with that, he assumes it’s work. He does give Aaron a pouty look, just because he has a little extra energy from just waking up. Aaron grins at him, a huge, bright smile that makes Spencer’s heart flip over a few times. Then he leans over to kiss Spencer.

“I’ll be right back, love,” he whispers. 

Spencer kisses him back, maybe a little longer than he should have, and pouts again when Aaron finally pulls away to pick up his call.

Once the doors slide shut, Spencer snuggles back down under the blankets that Garcia brought him. He’s got the purple plush close against his skin, grateful for the soft fabric against his sensitive skin. He still hates the scratchy hospital gown, but until he’s more mobile, the nurses won’t let him out of the damn gown.

On top of the plush, Aaron spread out the beautiful purple paisley weighted blanket. Spencer loves it -- he loves the weight that presses him into the bed and calms his frayed nerves. The weight is like a warm hug, keeping him from tossing and turning and helping to keep the nightmares away when he manages to fall asleep. He loves the feeling of both blankets -- it almost reminds him of his bed at home and the way he and Aaron can snuggle together under both blankets. He wishes they had more space here, but he’s grateful -- no, beyond grateful -- for the fact that Aaron is willing to crawl into the tiny bed and hold him close. 

When Aaron returns, Spencer pops his head out of the nest he’s created. Aaron grins at the sight, his heart just a little lighter at the return of some of Spencer’s natural playfulness. Garcia’s visit and presents -- including the most adorable reversible plush axolotl -- had seemed to help lift some of the fog that Spencer had been stuck in. 

No one else has really been back yet; Aaron isn’t ready to admit that the entire team knows about  _ them.  _ He’s not ready to have that conversation with Spencer, not ready to try and convince him of how much Aaron needs him. He’s never been good at words, it’s something he and Haley fought over more than once.

__ The lack of visitors hasn’t mattered much. Spencer still tires very easily and wasn’t even able to tolerate Garcia for very long. Nevertheless, Garcia’s spirit seems to remain in the room, giving Spencer some of his energy and personality back.

“What was that about?” Spencer asks. 

Aaron knows he can tell Spencer  _ nothing _ and he’ll let it go. He’ll assume it's for work, and will understand that he doesn’t need to know. At least, for now he will. Aaron knows he’ll argue eventually. However, Aaron doesn’t  _ want _ to just say  _ it’s nothing. _ Because it isn’t, and he’s too excited about this.

“A surprise,” Aaron responds. He grins and swoops in for another kiss. 

Spencer perks up. “What kind of surprise?”

“The kind that you don’t  _ talk about, _ Spence.” Aaron grins at him again. He sits down on the bed and leans over Spencer. He frames Spencer’s face with one hand on either side. God, he loves this man, and  _ God _ is he grateful that Spencer is still with him. 

He swoops down to kiss Spencer again. “I love you.”

Something dark and frightened flickers through Spencer’s eyes a fraction of a second before Spencer gives him a blinding grin.

“I know,” he murmurs, leaning up to steal another kiss.

Aaron shakes his head. He hates that look that lurks in the back of Spencer’s eyes. 

“No. No you don’t know, Spencer.” He drops his head in frustration.

“Aaron?” Spencer’s voice is suddenly small and frightened. 

Aaron curses in his head. He’s done exactly what he didn’t want to do: fed into that insecurity that perpetually hides in the back of Spencer’s mind.

“Cinnamon, you don’t understand.” Aaron leans on one hand, bringing the other up to run his fingers through Spencer’s soft curls. “You just don’t understand.”

Spencer blinks up at him, his eyes suddenly wide and frightened. “Aaron, what …”

“This.” Aaron’s fingers ghost across the furrow in Spencer’s forehead. “This right here. All those fears that just popped into your head.” Aaron tilts his head to the side. “You know the team knows. About us, I mean.”

Spencer swallows. “All of them?”

Aaron nods. 

“H-how are they?”

Aaron smiles. “Aside from Morgan? Rossi says their fine.” He shrugs and his expression darkens. “Morgan will come around, or he won’t. It won’t change how I feel about you.”

Spencer’s eyes are still dark, still worried, and Aaron knows why.

“Spencer. Look at me.”

Spencer does, eventually. “Aaron …”

“Spencer, listen to me.” Aaron runs his finger through Spencer’s hair again. “I’m … I’m not good at this, at words, at … well, at all of this.” He grins ruefully. “It took me too long to be able to tell you I love you. I know I’m no good --”

Spencer surges up, landing a sudden and ultimately awkward kiss on Aaron’s lips. He whimpers in pain at the movement, but shushes Aaron with a finger to his lips. 

“That’s … that’s Haley talking, Aaron.” Spencer’s own trembling fingers find their way into Aaron’s hair, and he finds himself closing his eyes and leaning into the touch. “That’s Haley. You’re … Aaron, you’re more than enough for me. You’re everything I need. I’ve … I’ve always known, Aaron. I’ve always known how you feel. I know.”

Spencer tugs on Aaron’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss. Aaron melts into it, something broken in him healing at Spencer’s words. He almost forgets what he was saying. Almost, but not quite. 

“I need you,” Aaron finally manages to whisper against Spencer’s lips. “I don’t think you know how much I need you.” He pulls back, far enough to look into Spencer’s eyes. “This … I need this. I need how much you accept me. You -- Spencer, you love me in a way that I never thought I could be loved. In a way I didn’t think I deserved.” 

He ducks down again, kissing Spencer again, over and over in short, sweet kisses. 

“I  _ need _ you.” Aaron pulls back, staring down into Spencer’s face intently. “I need you more than I need this job, this team. I will never,  _ ever  _ leave you. I couldn’t, Spencer. God, when I thought you were dying, I couldn’t  _ breathe.” _ Aaron closes his eyes, trying to keep in the tears he feels burning at his eyes. “I couldn’t think or breathe or … or  _ anything.”  _ He takes a deep breath. “When you were in a coma, I felt like I had lost everything. God, Spencer.  _ God.” _

Aaron drops down to his elbows, careful not to crush Spencer, but effectively embracing him. He crashes their lips together, trying to communicate what he can't in words.

Finally, long past the time when they both need air, Aaron pulls back. 

“I don’t expect you to believe me, not right now.” Aaron kisses Spencer’s forehead. “But I’m going to spend every day trying to convince you of that. And I will never leave you. Never.”

Spencer swallows, and Aaron can see tears in his eyes. He feels Spencer’s arms snake up over his back.

“Aaron … Aaron, I -- I don’t know what to say …” 

Aaron grins at him. “Don’t. Don’t say anything. Just … just  _ listen _ to me. Please. Please, know how much I need you.”

Spencer nods. “I … I’ll try, Aaron.”

“That’s all I can ask for, Cinnamon.” And Aaron kisses him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if I mentioned, but the new "song of inspiration" is _Hold My Girl_ by George Ezra. It's such a sweet little love song, and seems to do what I want it to do for the comfort half of this story.
> 
> More to come, including the arrival of a long awaited guest, and some conversations with Morgan. Mwahaha.
> 
> Comments make me :-) Thank you all so much for your support and your patience with me as I work through this unexpected time of my life. <3


End file.
